THE BABYSITTER

The pencil lead snapped against the sketchpad with a sharp crack that made Hanni want to scream. She threw the pencil across her bedroom, watching it bounce off the wall and skitter under her desk. Perfect. Just perfect.

Downstairs, her mother's voice carried up through the floorboards, that specific pitch of fake-cheerful she used when she was trying to sound casual about something absolutely insane. "—and we really appreciate you doing this on such short notice, Minji. You know how we worry—"

Hanni pressed her hands over her ears, but she could still hear her father's booming laugh. "She'll probably just hole up in her room the whole time anyway. You know teenagers."

I'm eighteen, she wanted to shriek down at them. Eighteen. A literal adult. I can vote. I can buy lottery tickets. I can get married without your permission.

Instead, she grabbed another pencil and went back to her sketch—a half-finished illustration of a girl trapped in a tower, reaching toward a window. Subtle. Real subtle, Hanni.

The sound of a truck door slamming made her stomach twist. She didn't need to look out the window to know it was her. She'd recognize the sound of that old Ford anywhere; she'd been hearing it pull into their driveway for years. Family barbecues. Her dad's poker nights. That time the kitchen sink exploded and her mom had called her in a panic.

Kim Minji. Dependable. Responsible. The human equivalent of a smoke detector—always around, always watching, always ready to ruin her fun.

And now, apparently, her babysitter.

Hanni was absolutely going to die of humiliation. She was going to spontaneously combust right here in her bedroom, and they'd find nothing but a pile of ash and her sketchbook full of angsty drawings.

She heard the front door open. The deep rumble of her voice, all gravel and cigarettes even though she'd never seen her smoke. Her mother's delighted greeting, like she was doing them the biggest favor in the world instead of agreeing to prison-guard an adult woman for forty-eight hours.

"Hanni!" her mother called up the stairs. "Come down and say hello!"

Hanni counted to ten. Then twenty. Then she gave up and threw her sketchbook on the bed.

She caught her reflection in the mirror by her door and almost laughed at how ridiculous she looked—oversized band t-shirt, ripped fishnets under shorts her mother hated, her dark hair in a messy bun that had been strategic this morning but now just looked like she'd been electrocuted. Smudged eyeliner from rubbing her eyes.

She looked exactly like the bratty teenager they all thought she was.

Good.

Hanni stomped down the stairs, making sure each step announced her arrival. When she rounded the corner into the living room, three pairs of eyes turned toward her.

Her parents looked nervous. They should be.

Minji looked... tired.

She stood by the doorway with her arms crossed, wearing her usual uniform of work boots, dark jeans, and a henley that had seen better days. Her salt-and-pepper hair needed a cut, and there was a fresh scrape on her forearm—probably from whatever job site she'd been working. She had the kind of face that looked like it had forgotten how to smile somewhere around 2008: hard jaw, permanent crease between her eyebrows, eyes the color of steel that missed absolutely nothing.

Those eyes tracked over her now, quick and assessing, and Hanni felt her cheeks get hot.

She hated that. Hated that she could make her feel like a kid caught doing something wrong when she was just standing there.