The notice goes up without warning.
No announcement. No explanation. Just a single sheet of paper taped crookedly to the board near the dining hall, its corners already peeling, as if it's been waiting for this moment longer than anyone else has. Someone has smoothed it once, then given up.
REASSIGNMENTS — EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY
The word reassignment doesn't mean much to most of the children. It sounds like paperwork. Like something distant and adult-shaped.
Alexander knows better.
He sees the notice before Ira does because he has learned where to look. Not faces. Not reactions. Paper is where decisions live here. Paper is where lives get rearranged without permission.
His eyes move down the list once.
Then again, slower.
He feels it before he lets himself understand it—a sudden pressure behind his sternum, sharp and disorienting, like the ground has shifted just enough to throw him off balance.
Ira — Wing C. Temporary placement.
Temporary is a word they use when they don't want to argue.
Alexander doesn't move.
Doesn't blink.
Doesn't let his expression change.
Behind him, Ira is still talking—arguing quietly with Samir about whose turn it is to wipe the tables. Her voice is animated, irritated, alive. Too alive for what this paper is about to do to her.
He shifts his body without thinking, stepping just enough to block her view of the board.
"Alex?" she says, noticing his sudden stillness. "What are you staring at?"
"Nothing," he replies immediately.
The lie lands clean. Necessary.
She narrows her eyes. She's learned his pauses, the way his stillness means something is wrong. "You saw something."
He keeps his body angled. "It's not important."
Samir looks up.
Samir always looks up at the wrong moments.
His gaze follows Alexander's line of sight. His expression changes—not shock, but recognition. The kind that says I knew it would happen, just not today.
"Well," Samir says lightly, too lightly. "That didn't take long."
Ira's stomach drops before she even turns around.
She reads the notice fast. Too fast. As if speed might blunt the meaning. As if she can outrun the words.
Wing C.
Her fingers curl reflexively at her sides. She's heard about Wing C. Quieter. Smaller. More inspections. Less movement. Children don't come back from Wing C unchanged.
"Temporary," she says out loud, clinging to the word like it might listen to her. "It says temporary."
Alexander doesn't answer.
Because temporary is how things disappear here.
An attendant claps her hands once, loud enough to cut through the murmurs. "Ira. Pack essentials only. You move before lunch."
Before lunch.
Before questions.
Before goodbyes.
Ira feels heat rush to her face, dizzy and sharp. She presses her palms together hard enough to hurt, grounding herself.
"Why?" she asks.
The attendant doesn't even look at her properly. "Space issue."
It's always space. Never choice. Never consequence.
Ira turns back to Alexander.
Really looks this time.
Something in his composure has fractured—not enough for anyone else to notice, but she sees it. The rigidity. The way his jaw is set too tight. The way his hands have curled into fists at his sides.
"You knew," she says quietly.
"I just saw," he answers.
She believes him. That's the worst part. If he'd lied, she could've been angry. Belief leaves nowhere to put the feeling.
They're given fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes to dismantle a fragile, shared world.
In the room, Ira moves on instinct. She pulls her bag from under the bed, hands shaking now, and doesn't bother to stop them. There's no audience here. No point pretending.
Alexander stands near the door.
Not watching her.
Watching the corridor.
Counting footsteps. Timing shifts. He listens like the building might betray something if he's quiet enough.
"They can't just—" Ira starts, stuffing clothes into the bag without folding them. It feels wrong to be neat now, like tidiness would mean acceptance.
"They can," Alexander says.
Her laugh comes out brittle, breathless. "You're so calm about this."
He turns to her then.
"I'm not."
The words are low. Tight. Pulled from somewhere deeper than caution.
She stops moving.
He steps closer before either of them seems to register it. One step. Then another. The space between them collapses—not touching, but close enough that she can feel the tension rolling off him, thick and restrained.
"They don't get to decide this," she says, her voice shaking despite herself. "They don't get to just move me like I'm furniture."
"They do," he says. Then, quieter, more dangerous, "Unless we make it difficult."
Her breath catches.
"What does that mean?"
He doesn't answer.
Instead, he reaches past her—slow, deliberate—and presses the coin into her palm.
Her fingers close around it automatically. The familiar weight grounds her for half a second.
"No," she whispers. "You keep it."
"If you go," he says, "you take it."
"If," she repeats, clinging to the word. "Alex—"
"Listen to me." His voice drops further.
"Wing C has inspections every night. They search harder. If they find it—"
"They won't," she says automatically.
"They will," he replies. "Eventually."
She understands then. Not just the fear, but the calculation behind it.
"You think this is permanent."
He doesn't deny it.
Something inside her folds in on itself.
She presses the coin back toward him. "Then you keep it. So I know it's still here."
His fingers brush hers.
It's the first time they've touched.
Barely. Just skin against skin for a fraction of a second.
The contact is electric. Not gentle. Not comforting. Sharp. Like touching a live wire.
Both of them freeze.
Alexander pulls his hand back like he's been burned.
Ira's heart is pounding so hard it hurts.
An attendant's voice echoes down the hall. "Time."
The moment shatters.
They walk out together.
Not side by side. Not touching. But close enough that their shoulders nearly brush, close enough that each step feels synchronized even though neither of them planned it.
At the corridor junction, they're stopped.
"Wing C is that way," the attendant says, pointing.
Alexander steps forward without thinking. "She needs—"
The attendant cuts him off with a look sharp enough to silence adults. "Back."
Ira turns to him then.
There are so many things she wants to say. Too many. None of them safe.
"If I don't talk for a while," she says instead, forcing the words out evenly, "it doesn't mean—"
"I know," he says immediately.
"If I do," she adds, softer, "it's because I'm trying to remember myself."
His throat tightens. He nods once.
She steps back.
Then another.
Then she's being guided away, hands light but firm at her shoulders.
She doesn't look back
.
She knows if she does, she won't leave.
Wing C smells different.
Cleaner. Colder. Like sound has been trained out of it.
Her bed is narrower. The walls closer. The rules are posted higher on the walls, like warnings instead of guidance. Her name is written on a clipboard outside the room in block letters.
That night, she lies awake listening to footsteps she doesn't recognize.
She presses the coin to her chest until it warms, until the metal feels almost alive.
Across the building, Alexander sits on his bed fully dressed.
He doesn't lie down.
He doesn't sleep.
He watches the door until his eyes burn.
Because this wasn't random.
Because reassignment is never random.
And because if they're taking Ira away—
It means someone noticed.
The next morning, Alexander is summoned to the office.
This time, they say Ira's name first.
And that is when he knows:
this is no longer about space.
It's about control.