Iris Angelo woke up in the softest bed she'd ever touched in her entire fourteen years of existence.
For a solid thirty seconds, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling that was not water-stained like the one in her Philadelphia apartment. This ceiling was smooth and white, with elegant molding that probably cost more than three months of rent. The sheets felt like they were made from clouds. Or maybe angel hair. Whatever ridiculous thing rich people used when regular cotton wasn't fancy enough for their delicate skin.
Iris wiggled her toes under the blanket, feeling the weight and quality of the comforter. This was the guest room. The guest room. The place where they stuck people who weren't even important enough to get the real rooms.
And it was still nicer than anywhere she'd ever slept.
