"I saw you about to take the fall for us before Miss K did down there. And I'm telling you, that was a dumb fucking thing to do. You might get a shit sandwich no matter what you put in the kitchen, but it's your choice whether or not you eat it. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that the only way to not eat it is to look out for your fuckin' self. You jump in front of a bullet, man, and the only thing that happens is you get shot."
Felipe stands abruptly. Before Peter can think of anything to say to stop him, he clambers up the ladder and disappears into the upper bunk.
The broken support beam groans.
Felipe doesn't look at Peter as they head down to breakfast the next morning. Peter doesn't try to catch his eye this time, just shuffles to his seat with his head down, his stomach twisting.
To everyone's surprise, Ms. Charlise is standing by the stove. Mr. Leonard is there too, even though he's not supposed to be on shift. He's got an unlit cigarette between his lips, and he grins as Arnold, Peter, and Felipe sit with Justin, who is already there.
Peter feels a twinge of sympathy when Ms. Charlise turns to look at them. She has a black eye, and her bottom lip is so swollen she looks like she's been stung by a massive insect.
His sympathy doesn't last long.
"It's come to my attention," says Ms. Charlise, "that it may be time for me to take more of an interest in your rehabilitation. There's been a stunning lack of discipline in this house. A lack of structure. It ends today."
She grabs two plates of scrambled eggs from the counter. She places the first one in front of Arnold, the second in front of Justin.
And she walks out of the room.
Now Peter and Felipe look at each other. They look at Arnold, who is staring between them with an expression like fear. They look at Justin, who is already eating his eggs, his head down.
They look at Mr. Leonard, who continues to grin.
And so Peter and Felipe learn what their punishment is going to be.
There is no more yard time. No more card games. There is heat and sweat and taking long gulps of water from the tap in the bathroom, because Ms. Charlise will only let them fill their water bottles three times a day. They have their phone privileges suspended too, which matters more to Felipe, because Peter doesn't have anyone to call anyway.
There are no more meals.
This, Peter does care about.
She gives them each a glass of milk and half an apple at bedtime, which is the only indication she doesn't intend to kill them with this punishment. It does nothing to stave off the twist in Peter's gut as he lays awake that night, listening to Felipe toss and turn above him and trying to remember what it was like when hunger was just something he complained about if his parents took too long with dinner, or if he went too long between meals because he was caught up in a project, or reading. It feels as faraway and fake as the sci-fi stories he tells himself to get to sleep.
Tonight, the stories don't work.
By the second day, Peter learns what hunger pains really means. The twist takes on a knife-edge, making him feel like his stomach is full of blades. It's so bad he spends the day curled on the couch, only getting up when his need for water outweighs the pain, determinedly avoiding looking at Ms. Charlise.
She wants them to beg.
Peter isn't going to. Because stronger than the hunger, now, is the anger.
He's angry at Ms. Charlise for treating them like this. He's angry at Ben for leaving him here, for making him think life was ever supposed to be fair. He's angry for what's been done to Felipe, and angry because he desperately wants to find a way to prove him wrong—to prove that good things come to good people, and that you can fight back when things go bad… but he can't think of anything to make his argument.
He won't beg, though. That much he can still control.
Lying awake on the second night. No more monster movies. Peter is only half conscious, and stories are too difficult for his hazy brain to formulate.
Instead, he imagines the Avengers.
It's just one scene, played over and over, but with different players each time: Captain America arrives in a hailstorm of splintered wood, gathers the kids, and leaves without a backward glance. Then it is Black Widow. Iron Man. Even the Hulk makes an appearance.
Peter gets so lost in it he doesn't notice that there are sounds coming from above him until the muffled whimpers turn into sobs.
Peter gets up. Sways. Climbs the ladder to the upper bunk with more effort than he's ever spent on anything in his entire life.
Felipe is curled up, arms wrapped around his stomach but still thrashing, rolling on the bed while he tries and fails to find a comfortable position. The sounds he's making remind Peter of the time he saw a dog get hit by a car. That time, Ben had yanked him away while other samaritans rushed to help, covering Peter's ears and walking briskly until they were out of earshot.
There's no one to yank him away this time.
Peter grabs Felipe's hand.
"Felipe. It's okay. It's gonna be okay."
"It's not," Felipe moans. "She can't do this. She can't do this, she gotta feed us, man. She—she can't just—she can't—"
The rest of the sentence is lost to another moan.
Peter wants to prove Felipe wrong. But he doesn't know how. So instead he sits there, sweaty hands grasping Felipe's, knife twisting, and waits for exhaustion to outweigh hunger.
Peter is sure she will give them breakfast the next day. If she really doesn't want to kill them, she has to—and she doesn't want to kill them. She can't. She'd never get away with it.
Right?
But once again Ms. Charlise has just two plates when they arrive in the kitchen. She gives them to Justin and Arnold and, just like the last two mornings, looks at Peter and Felipe as if daring them to challenge her before she walks out.