Caleb shoved the glossy photograph back into the plastic bin and pushed it under his mattress.
He grabbed the edge of the doorframe to steady himself. The caloric deficit drained the strength from his legs.
Kikaru followed close behind as he walked out of the narrow bedroom. Her carbon-fiber leg brace clicked against the scuffed linoleum, a sharp, precise rhythm that belonged in a corporate boardroom rather than a lower-sector housing block.
His mother stood at the cramped kitchenette, wiping the cheap laminate counter with a frayed towel. The steady, low thrum of the oxygen concentrator in his brother's room stuttered, dropping in pitch before whining back up to a baseline hum.
His mother stopped wiping. She stared at the closed bedroom door.
"The primary intake filter is catching," she said. "It's burning out the compressor motor. I need the carbon mesh replacements from the border salvage market."
Caleb pulled his keys from his pocket. "I'll go."
