"What's your name, honey?"

The woman behind the desk peered at me over her glasses, her voice soft but firm. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled into a bun, and her face was lined with the kind of weariness that came from years of doing hard, thankless work.

I hesitated, gripping the strap of my backpack like it was a lifeline. For a moment, I considered giving a fake name. Something about admitting who I was—Ethan McAllister, the kid who didn't even last a week on his own—felt like an admission of defeat.

"Ethan," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded and slid a clipboard toward me. "Sign here, Ethan. Dinner's still being served if you're hungry, and there's a bed for you upstairs. Lights out at ten."

I scribbled my name and handed the clipboard back, muttering a quiet "thank you" before shuffling toward the dining area.

The smell of food hit me as soon as I stepped inside: something warm and savory, a welcome contrast to the cold air outside. My stomach growled loudly, and I realized just how long it had been since I'd eaten anything substantial.

I grabbed a tray and joined the line. The stew was thick, with chunks of potato, carrots, and what I thought might have been beef. A slice of buttered toast was perched on the side of the plate. It wasn't fancy, but it looked like heaven.

Finding an empty seat at the corner of a long table, I sat down and dug in. The first bite of stew warmed me from the inside out, and for a moment, I didn't care where I was or what had brought me here. I just ate, focusing on the simple act of filling the hollow ache in my stomach.

Around me, the room buzzed with muted conversations. People talked in low voices, their words a blur of sound. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact. I didn't want to talk. Didn't want to explain why I was here or hear someone else's story.

When I finished eating, I carried my tray to the bin and slipped away, heading upstairs to the dormitory. Rows of metal-framed beds filled the room, each one neatly made with a thin blanket and a pillow. I found an empty bed near the corner and dropped my backpack onto the floor beside it.

The mattress creaked as I sat down, the springs protesting under my weight. For a while, I just sat there, staring at the scuffed tile floor, my thoughts circling like vultures.

I thought about Daniel and Liam. They were the kind of sons my dad could be proud of—Daniel with his high-paying job in finance, and Liam, a star athlete turned successful coach. They were everything I wasn't: driven, confident, capable.

Growing up, it had always felt like I was living in their shadow. No matter what I did, it was never enough. My grades weren't as good as Daniel's. I wasn't as athletic as Liam. Even my hobbies—sketching, listening to music—felt small and unimportant next to their accomplishments.

Dad never said it outright, but I knew he thought I was wasting my potential. He was always pushing me to "apply myself," as if the only reason I wasn't excelling was because I wasn't trying hard enough.

But the truth was, I didn't know how to try. I didn't know what I wanted or where I fit in. And every time I failed, it just made me want to stop trying altogether.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a pale glow across the room.

Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I was lazy. Maybe I was ungrateful. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't force myself to care about the things he wanted me to care about. School felt like a prison, and every achievement my brothers racked up felt like another chain locking me into a life I didn't want.

I closed my eyes, the ache in my chest growing heavier. I'd thought leaving Albany would make things better, but now I wasn't so sure. The city wasn't the fresh start I'd imagined—it was just another place where I didn't belong.

Around me, the sounds of the shelter began to fade as people settled into their beds. The creak of mattresses, the soft murmur of voices, the occasional cough. It wasn't exactly quiet, but it was enough.

I pulled the thin blanket over me, trying to block out the cold that seeped through the cracks in the window. For a moment, I thought about my mom—how she used to tuck me in when I was little, brushing the hair off my forehead and humming softly until I fell asleep.

I missed her.

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut, and I swallowed hard, willing the tears to stay away.

Eventually, the hum of exhaustion drowned out everything else, and I drifted into a restless sleep, my dreams filled with echoes of the past I couldn't escape and the future I was too afraid to face.