Kestrel Hall, fourth floor, the last door on the corridor, and the key the housing office gave you is still warm from the machine that cut it. Flat nine: four doors around one kitchen that smells like onions and somebody's hair product, one window over the bike racks, five mugs on a shelf built for four.

Three of the doors are open. The fourth is yours, the one the housing officer circled in red on your form, and there is a strip of tape on the frame with a name on it in marker that is not yours.

a white-haired boy says from the counter, before you have both feet inside.

He is in a white tee and three silver chains, two little star clips in his hair catching the kitchen light when he tips his head.

A second one is flat on the couch with a grey tee rucked up and his eyes half shut, and he stays exactly where he is.

he says, to the ceiling.

Nobody laughs, because the third one is under the sink with a wrench and has not looked at you once: black hair hanging into his eyes, a black hoodie with both white drawstrings hanging loose, soap dried on one wrist. He turns a valve, listens to the pipe, turns it back a quarter turn.

the one on the couch says.

The fourth comes out of the kitchen with a plate in his hand, brown hair pushed back, a plaster taped flat to one cheek, and sets it on the table in front of the empty chair without being asked. He pulls the chair out with his foot and stands behind it with one hand on the back.

he says.