Chapter 3

Scraps and Second Chances

The car rolled slowly through the narrow streets, houses so close to the train tracks they looked like they were bracing for impact. Kiki stared out the window, tracing the sagging rooftops and cracked sidewalks, wondering which came first—the rails or the homes. Either way, it felt careless. Unsafe. Like everything here was waiting for something to go wrong.

She said nothing. Instead, she prayed silently, over and over: Be good. Don’t give Aunt Latifa a reason to send you away. You have nowhere else to go.

The town moved at a different pace than the city she’d left behind. Here, people smiled like they knew your name, and the sheriff probably knew your dog’s. It crawled slow—like molasses in winter—quiet except for the occasional tractor blinking orange in a field nearby.

What unsettled Kiki wasn’t the silence, but the emptiness. No kids racing on banana-seat bikes. No jump-rope chants. No boomboxes blasting Run-DMC or Whitney Houston. Just stillness.

Not that she expected to fit in. Alex had a way of making friends instantly—Kiki was always the leftover piece, close but never quite right. Especially around new faces. Especially around herself.

“In time, you’ll love this little town,” Latifa said, voice a little too bright. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Kiki caught between fear and devastation. She could only hope love could make this a home.

Latifa’s chest tightened. How could she expect this girl—ripped from her whole life—to feel safe here, let alone happy?

Kiki didn’t answer. She kept staring out, watching the houses blur past—small, squat, leaning in like they were waiting for the next hit.

People heard stories like hers and thought they understood. But they didn’t—not really. The worst part wasn’t the day her mother told her to leave. It was the week before—the slow, sick dread in her gut. The silence before the door slammed. The helpless knowing. Every night she dreamed of being homeless, curled in a box against the wind. Once, she froze to death in that dream.

Nobody noticed.

She forced a smile. “I’m sure I will, Aunt Latifa.”

But inside, she wasn’t sure of anything. Not this town. Not Latifa. Not even herself.

This place might give her a bed and a roof, but that didn’t mean it would ever feel like home.

School had tested her for everything: extra reading help, one-on-one support for her stutter. But there was no test for why she felt strange around people. No guide to make her insides match her outside. No class to teach her how to stop being a walking mistake.

If there had been, she would’ve studied it like a survival manual—highlighted every rule, underlined every page. Just to feel normal. Just to belong.

The car jerked and stopped in front of a narrow white house with a porch almost flush with the sidewalk. It wasn’t big. Not flashy.

But to Kiki, it looked enormous.

The biggest house she’d ever lived in. The first real house she’d ever call home.

Planters lined the porch railing, spilling red and yellow flowers she didn’t know the names of. Their sweet scent drifted through the open window—smelling like nothing she’d ever known. Not mildew. Not bus stations. Not the past.

This was a different world.

Her life before had been a shuffle through crumbling apartments, water-stained ceilings, neighbors fighting through paper-thin walls. Sometimes she had a room of her own, but more often a lumpy couch or a blanket in a corner.

She stared, wide-eyed.

“This is yours?” she whispered.

“I’ve never lived in a real house before.”

Latifa wished she could give Kiki more—a big house with wide hallways, soft furniture, space to breathe. But all she could offer was a modest corner in this old place, safe and clean. She’d lived in worse. And she assumed Kiki had too.

Still, it hurt knowing this was the best she could manage on a waitress’s salary.

Back when the mirror was kinder, Latifa had made more money in a night than she did now in a week. But that came at a cost—dancing piece by piece for strangers until it wasn’t just her clothes stripped away.

She’d clawed her way out. Proud and ashamed all at once.

She smiled and pointed to the right side of the house. “No, sweetie. Not the whole thing. We’ve got this side.”

Then she gestured left. “Miss Mabel lives there, and old Mr. Ben stays in the back.”

Latifa braced herself for disappointment. But if Kiki felt it, she didn’t show it. Maybe when you’ve grown up with nothing, even a corner feels like a palace.

As Latifa opened the door, Anthony turned to Kiki with a kind look. But it didn’t settle her nerves. Gentle eyes, yes—but the thick scar down his cheek told a different story.

Her mother’s boyfriends had taught her to read danger: scars, tattoos, clenched jaws, quiet voices before things got loud.

Her pulse quickened.

For a moment, she thought about climbing back into the car, shutting the door behind her. But there was nowhere to hide. So she stood still, chest tight, alert.

Her teacher used to say stranger danger doesn’t disappear just because you get older.

Anthony handed her a small, worn Bible with a gold cross hanging from its frayed spine.

“I’m not going to force religion on you,” he said, low and steady. “But I want you to have this—a Bible and a cross. Just something to remind you that you’re welcome here, whether you believe or not.”

He placed it gently in her hands, like something sacred.

Latifa clapped once, sharp in the still air.

“Oh, don’t worry—Kiki will be at church every Sunday!” she said brightly, grinning wide. “The family that prays together stays together.”

But when she looked at Kiki, the girl’s face was unreadable—blank almost. A flicker of doubt crossed Latifa’s face. Maybe she was pushing too hard.

She just wanted to give Kiki something—anything—that felt like hope.

Church had saved her. It had changed her life.

She wanted Kiki to have that lifeline, even if it came slowly.

Her voice softened.

“I’m not asking you to pretend to believe. But I’d love for you to come with me. Just to see.”

Anthony chuckled. “If nothing else, you might meet some kids your age. Maybe even make a friend.”

Kiki watched the sunlight flicker across the gold cross, making it sparkle in her palm.

She wasn’t sure about church. Maybe it was harmless. Maybe not.

All she knew was it mattered to Aunt Latifa—and that meant something.

The word cult crept in, unwelcome.

She didn’t know what made something a cult, but every news story ended the same: someone died.

The idea tightened her stomach. She wasn’t accusing anyone—Latifa seemed too kind—but still… just in case.

Right then, she decided: play along, smile, say the right things. But keep one suitcase packed at all times. If things got weird—really weird—she’d be ready to run.

Hiding unease behind a practiced smile, she chirped, “I’ve never been to church before, but I’ll give it a try.”

Latifa had expected some resistance.

Their family wasn’t exactly religious, and pushing Kiki too soon could backfire.

But whether fear or honesty, Kiki had agreed without protest.

Latifa wasn’t sure what that meant—maybe she never would—but she believed if her family had found faith sooner, things might have been different.

If her sister had known God, maybe she wouldn’t have abandoned her daughter to a stranger.

“That’s all I can ask,” she said softly.

As Latifa turned the key in the front door, she noticed Kiki paused at the porch edge.

Across the street, a boy about her age straddled a bike, one foot on the ground, the other on a pedal.

Shaggy blond curls framed his face, a streak of dirt on his cheek like he’d been in a field.

His shirt hung from his handlebars, a slingshot poking from his back pocket.

He wasn’t staring—but he wasn’t ignoring them either.

Kiki’s eyes lingered on him, curious and guarded—already trying to guess how he’d look at her in class. Calculating the odds of belonging.

Latifa’s pulse flickered.

Lord, not yet, she thought. We haven’t even had cake.

She said nothing, but nerves stayed.

Not because the boy looked threatening—he didn’t.

He looked like a kid.

But she knew how fast boys grew teeth.

How fast girls lost themselves trying to make someone smile.

“Ready to go in?” she asked, voice even.

Kiki blinked, startled, then nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.”

The boy turned and pedaled away, cutting through a dirt path between houses.

Kiki’s gaze followed him until he disappeared.

Latifa pushed the door open and stepped inside, her heart heavier than before.

Anthony stepped back, giving them space.

He was careful with young people—especially ones who looked hurt.

Helping others gave him purpose.

But he tried not to be that religious person who forced scripture like medicine.

He’d hated those people once.

Hated their smugness. Their certainty.

But his faith had saved him.

Without it, he’d probably be dead in a ditch or behind bars like many he’d known.

Every morning he woke up grateful he wasn’t one of them.

“Church isn’t the price of belonging,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry if it seemed that way. You’re already part of this community, Kiki. Whether you come to church or not, we’re here for you. No strings.”

Kiki just nodded, stepping out of the car and following Latifa onto the porch.

She had a lot to think about.

The world she’d grown up in didn’t reach this far.

Two hours on a bus felt like crossing into another country. Another time.

Deep down, fear gnawed at her like a mad dog—sharp, constant, hungry.

That fear had been growing since her mother made it clear she didn’t want her anymore.

Latifa cleared her throat nervously.

“Did you want to come in for coffee?”

She was terrified to be alone with Kiki—not because of Kiki herself, but because of the awkward silence between two people who were supposed to be family but weren’t yet.

Anthony smiled gently. “No, I’m okay. You two need time to get to know each other. I’d just be in the way.”

Latifa’s heart sank.

She’d hoped he’d stay a little longer—a buffer.

But judging by Kiki’s blank stare down the street, she felt the same.

Both holding onto quiet hope he might change his mind.

Somewhere in the distance, a train horn groaned—low and mournful, like it knew.

“I’m just a phone call away if you need anything,” Anthony said as he closed the car door.

Leaning toward the open window, he added, “Stop by the thrift shop tomorrow. We’ll see about getting you some clothes. I can’t imagine there’s much in those two little suitcases.”

As he drove away, he watched them in the rearview mirror.

He wished he could do more.

But this was something they had to face alone.

Latifa was stronger than she realized.

When he first met her, she was shattered, chasing happiness in all the wrong places.

It took real courage to walk away and build something new.

This was the right step toward healing.

She just had to follow through.

Inside, Kiki stepped cautiously into the dim living room.

A scruffy, faded blue couch sat in the middle, edges frayed with tears.

In the corner, a small white TV rested on a rickety table.

An old, scratched coffee table held a Bible.

The room was mostly bare.

Latifa crossed the room and pulled open tall curtains, flooding the space with sunlight.

Dust danced in the brightness, and the room seemed just a little bigger.

Latifa looked determined.

“I know it’s nothing fancy,” she said, “but it’s home.”

She’d always said she’d downsized.

The truth: earning an honest living was harder than stripping ever was.

She’d sold most of her nicer furniture before moving here, keeping only essentials.

It hadn’t bothered her—until now.

Now she wished she could give Kiki more.

Something warm. Something whole.

A place her niece could be proud of.

She pointed behind the couch.

“That’s the kitchen,” she said, laughing softly. “I’m not much of a cook, so don’t expect anything fancy.”

Kiki’s eyes lingered on the wide wood molding stretched across the walls.

She imagined it once polished and proud but dulled by time.

Running her fingers along the thick doorframe, she pictured the house’s glory days.

The floorboards creaked underfoot, sloping slightly as if the house was sinking into its history.

Wooden crosses hung silently on faded walls—guardians warding off unseen evil.

Kiki imagined her aunt expecting prayers every night.

Hands clasped, whispers of repentance.

Confessing sins both imagined and real.

But instead of fear, she chirped, “It’s okay, Aunt Latifa. I can cook. Not a chef, but I’ve been making meals since I was ten.”

Cooking was one thing she was proud of.

People always said her cookies smelled amazing—and tasted even better.

Latifa pointed to the kitchen counter with a sheepish grin.

“I tried to bake you a chocolate cake.”

She gestured toward a small, uneven cake with a single candle in the middle.

Not pretty. Not tasty-looking.

But none of that mattered.

No one had ever made her a birthday cake before—not bought, baked, or even attempted.

A lump rose in Kiki’s throat.

“I’m sure it’ll taste great,” she whispered, blinking fast to hold back tears.

Latifa laughed. “You won’t think so once you taste it.”

She pointed to a top-loading washer in the corner.

“I hang everything on the clothesline out back—except underwear and bras. They go over the shower rod upstairs.”

She grinned.

“Old Ben can’t keep his eyes off my underwear when I hang it out. Creeps me out.”

Kiki giggled.

Warm underwear felt good any season.

As Latifa showed her around, Kiki noticed dust on surfaces and in corners.

Not dirty, just needing care.

Her care.

She kept her hands close to her sides, afraid to touch too much.

Afraid she might break something.

Latifa swept through the house with quick hands and sharp eyes.

Opening cabinets, checking the freezer, flipping on the oven light.

“I’ll take you shopping tomorrow,” she promised.

“We’ll get what you need.”

Kiki swallowed.

She wasn’t used to people caring like that.

Before she could ask, Latifa smiled suddenly.

“How about we get some dinner? You can help with groceries.”

Reluctantly, Kiki nodded.

She was starting a new chapter.

With new challenges.

New hopes.

And maybe—just maybe—she could see a little light at the end of the tunnel.