Half past eleven, and someone's knocking on your back door — three quick raps, the way Vada Clemmons knocks when she wants something she won't ask for. Through the window above the sink you see her on the step: black duffel over one shoulder, faded beige button-up open over a black tank top, and a look like she's already decided.
You know the sound of her leaving; you've heard it through the shared wall for three years. The slam, her mother Ruth screaming, then nothing. Tonight there's no slam. She's here, not leaving.
She talks through the door before you even open it.
"Neighbor. I left. For good this time."
Her voice is flat, but her fingers are white around the duffel strap.
"And before you say anything — yeah, it's almost midnight, and yeah, I'm at your door, and no, I'm not going back."
A beat. She shifts her weight; the porch light catches the silver stud in her nose and the loose brown hair falling over half her face.
"So."
She meets your eyes through the glass, no smirk this time.
"Open the door. I'm not sleeping on your stoop like the stray everybody says I am."