Chapter 3

A month had passed. We hadn’t spoken much since that fateful night, but Cher had let me stay. She kept giving me money, including what I’d sent to my mother a few weeks ago — though now, they were considered loans, not gifts.

She also made me hand over my passport. Said she needed a guarantee that I wouldn’t do anything stupid. For an immigrant, there’s nothing more valuable than their passport — but a homeless immigrant with papers is still homeless.

I hesitated. Then gave it to her.

We had stayed in our own lanes. I had spent most of my time outside, either sitting in a park or wasting away in some random shopping mall lounge, while she had kept up her nightly ritual down in the basement.

Today, I left home early. I had a job interview at 8 o’clock, and it was the third interview I had this month. The interview was for the position of a cashier in a gas-station along a main road in the neighbourhood. The pay wasn’t great—defnitely not enough to pay for rent—but it would be the beginning of something. “If I could stop relying on Cher—even for something as small as food—that would be a win,” I thought.

The Chinese woman at the gas station looked at me with furrowed brows. She asked me why I left my last job. When she found out that I was fired and that my visa was expiring in a year, her brows became even narrower. She told me that she would call me back if I got the job, but I’d already known from her expression that the job had gone to someone else.

I felt depressed. I took a taxi downtown to see the man from the job agency again. He looked even more depressed than me. He sighed as usual as he looked through his computer for other available jobs.

“Can you sew? There’s a tailor’s shop looking for help — mostly basic stuff. Low pay, but steady.”

I shook my head ‘no’.

“Can you cook? A restaurant is looking for a cook”

I shook my head ‘no’.

“Can you clean?”

I hesitated.

“I mean ... I can clean. Not professionally, but I can do it.”

He didn’t look impressed, but he typed something into the computer anyway.

“There’s a motel not far from where you live. They need someone to clean rooms and do laundry. It’s part-time, shifts start early, but it doesn’t pay much.”

I nodded. “I’ll take it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to hear more about it first?”

“No. I just ... I need something.”

“Ok ... I’ll call them now so that you can start today.”

I spent the entire afternoon sweeping, vacuuming, scraping, scouring, washing, hanging, drying, twisting, turning. By the end of it, I hadn’t even made enough to cover the taxi fare back.

I was miserable. Retail in comparison was far easier than this cleaning business. It was a soul-crushing job. When I left the motel, I wasn’t really sure if I would ever go back there again.

On my way home, I received a text from Cher.

“When you get back, come have dinner with me. I made enough for two,” it read. “If we’re gonna keep living together, we can’t keep acting like strangers.”

I stared at the screen in my lap as the taxi rolled through traffic, too drained to react. There was no emoji, no forced cheer — just plain words. Direct. Maybe even honest.

But I knew what it was the second I read it. A peace offering.

When I entered the kitchen, Cher was waiting for me. She sat at the head of the table in a sea green camisole and shorts, her bare legs tucked under her, phone in hand.

She looked just like any other university girl her age — relaxed, casual, like she’d spent the afternoon scrolling through TikTok and boiling pasta.

If a stranger had walked in, they would’ve thought nothing of it. Nothing about her posture hinted at the tension from the past few weeks. Nothing about her face showed the sharp edges I’d come to brace myself for. For a second, I almost forgot what living with her felt like. Almost.

“Why is he here?” I asked, looking at the man on the floor.

“Who?” Cher looked up. “The dog?”

I nodded.

Cher put her phone down, glancing at Brucie at her feet. He was lying the way a dog might when resting — belly close to the floor, legs tucked beneath him, head lowered between his arms. Not alert. Not tense. Just still, settled, like he belonged there. Like the floor was his place. “Would you be more comfortable if he is back in the cage again?” Cher asked.

She nudged his side with her toes, not hard, just enough to feel the softness of him yield beneath the pressure. “Mira doesn’t want you here. So, you are skipping the meal,” she continued.

“You are starving him tonight?” I asked in awe. Brucie’s head popped up. He didn’t speak a word, but his eyes met mine, pleading.

“You don’t want him here, do you?” Cher said, her tone impatient.

“No, no ... I want him,” I quickly replied. “I want him here.”

I sat down on a chair immediately to her right. On the table were plates of steamed chicken, fried broccoli, scrambled eggs, and bowls of spaghetti. They had recently been prepared, and I could see steam rising from many of the plates.

No sooner had we started eating than Brucie crawled under the table. Suddenly, I was aware that I had just changed into a loose skirt. I had thought it was going to be just Cher and me, so I had picked up the first cotton one I saw and pulled it up. I hadn’t even bothered to put on panties.

From my seat, I couldn’t see Brucie. But there was no doubt that he was underneath there. I could feel air swooshing around my legs and could hear him padding softly on the floor. I couldn’t imagine how his point of view would be. Could he possibly see between my legs? The thought made me clamp my thighs together as I shifted in my seat.