Piper knocked on the apartment door and counted to three before it opened. A woman stood there, tired eyes looking her over, then stepped aside without a word. Inside, the noise hit first — crying from one room, shouting from another, something crashing in the back. The woman pointed at four kids scattered across the cramped space, then grabbed a coat from a hook. "They need to eat, sleep, and not kill each other," she said. "Back by morning." She was out the door before Piper could ask a single question. Piper turned to face the apartment. The walls were covered in layers of graffiti that had been painted over and tagged again. A broken television hung on one wall, its screen cracked into a spiderweb of colors that flickered and buzzed. The oldest kid, maybe ten, sat on a stained couch and stared at her. The others kept moving — one climbing on furniture, another pulling things out of cabinets, the smallest one still crying somewhere she couldn't see. This wasn't watching kids while parents went to dinner. This was survival. She stepped outside to clear her head and nearly tripped over the gutted vending machine propped against the building. Someone had torn it apart for parts or food or both. The whole block looked the same — cracked concrete, broken things, people getting by with nothing. She thought about the tuition money folded in her pocket from the deposit. She thought about walking away. But the deadline was three days out, and no other job would pay half of this. When she went back inside, the oldest kid was standing in the doorway holding a pot. "They're hungry," he said. "Mom didn't leave anything." Piper looked past him at the empty kitchen, the three other kids watching her now, waiting. She pulled out her phone and checked her account balance. Forty-two credits. Enough for noodles and maybe rice. She nodded at the boy and grabbed her coat. The job wasn't what she thought, but she was already in it. The only way out was through.

Piper came back with two bags of instant noodles and a small sack of rice. The oldest kid took them without a word and disappeared into the kitchen. She heard water running, then the hiss of a heating plate. The tuition deposit was gone now. She pulled out the credit chip and stared at the empty balance display. Zero credits. The holographic patterns still shimmered across its surface, pretty and useless. She'd walked into the store with enough for the deposit and walked out with enough to keep four kids from going to bed hungry. The choice hadn't felt like a choice at the time. Now it did. Outside the window, a neon billboard cycled through the time in glowing numbers. Two days and seventeen hours until the deadline. She watched the minutes tick down while the kids ate in the other room. The pile of empty cans and wrappers in the corner seemed to grow with every bowl of noodles they finished. Evidence of what she'd done. Evidence of what she'd lost. The oldest kid came back and sat on the couch next to her. He didn't say thank you. He didn't have to. He just sat there, not hungry anymore, and turned on a broken game console that barely worked. Piper looked at the credit chip one more time, then put it away. She still needed the money. She still had the deadline. But now she knew what she was willing to give up to get there, and it wasn't this.