Catherine watched a woman step from a car wrapped in fur so thick it looked like a cloud had been taught to behave. Diamonds winked at her throat. She laughed at something the doorman said, and the laugh was light, the way laughter is when it has never had to negotiate with hunger.
Catherine’s stomach growled so loudly she felt embarrassed, as if her body was betraying her.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, because lies had never kept them warm. “But if we don’t try, we don’t make it through the night.”
That was the truth. It stood between them like a third sister, blunt and unblinking.
Christine’s eyes filled. “What if they laugh at us again?”
“Then we leave,” Catherine said, though her chest tightened because leaving meant cold. “But at least we’ll know we tried.”
She squeezed Christine’s hand, as if warmth could be passed like a secret through skin.
“Ready?” Catherine asked.
Christine drew a shaky breath. “Ready.”
They stepped off the curb.
A car honked. Its headlights cut through rain and hit them like accusation. They stumbled back, hearts jolting. Then they ran, feet splashing, crossing the wet street in a half-sprint that felt like running through a dream where your legs won’t obey.
When they reached the red carpet, it was absurdly dry under their shoes. That small dryness felt like a different universe.
A security guard stood at the entrance, wide-shouldered, arms crossed, jaw set in the kind of hardness that made empathy look like weakness.
Catherine didn’t give him time to decide what she was. She lifted her chin, a gesture she remembered from a thousand imaginary performances in front of their broken warehouse piano.
“Please, sir,” she said, voice trembling but clear. “If we sing and play the piano for you… will you give us some food? Even just leftover bread.”
The guard blinked as if he’d heard a joke he didn’t understand.
Then his face twisted.
“Are you kidding me?” he snapped. “Look at you. You think people in there want that? This is the Williams Theater, not a soup kitchen. Get off the carpet.”
Christine flinched like the words had hands.
Catherine tried again, voice cracking. “We haven’t eaten in two days. Please. We can sing. We—”
“Street rats,” the guard muttered, loud enough for the insult to land. He grabbed Catherine’s shoulder and shoved her backward.
Catherine stumbled. Christine nearly fell. Catherine caught her, arms locking around her sister as if her own body could be a wall against the world.
“Go,” the guard snarled. “Before I call the police.”
Rain reclaimed them instantly, soaking them as if dryness had been a prank. Christine started to cry in the quiet, exhausted way that meant she had no energy left for loud.
“I told you,” she whispered. “Nobody helps us.”
Catherine’s throat burned. She blinked hard, forcing the tears back into her eyes like they were something she couldn’t afford.
That’s when she saw it.
Along the side of the building, half-hidden by shrubs and shadow, a smaller door opened as a worker stepped out with a trash bag. He disappeared again. The door didn’t close all the way. It hung open on a crack.
