October 28th, 1963 was Opalessa Dutchett’s nineteenth birthday, but the milestone felt less like a celebration and more like a deadline she wasn’t prepared to meet. She’d been hoping the day would get skipped—as if the calendar might glitch and jump straight to the twenty-ninth—but inevitably, the sun rose.

She spent the better part of her afternoon in a frantic battle against the state of her apartment. The space was small and dimly lit, prone to catching shadows in the corners even at noon. Each room had to be surgically cleared of its clutter; she stuffed unpaid electric bills, hopeful college waiting list letters, and newspapers circled with desperate red ink into drawers that already groaned under the weight of her mess. She swept the floors until her shoulders ached, then turned her attention to the small spare room. She’d transformed it into a guest bedroom, smoothing the mismatched linens with her palms, praying the foster agency would see it as a sign of a stable, prepared guardian.

She’d been fighting for custody of Danny since the day she turned eighteen, but the system was a fortress of red tape. They told her she was too young, that four years wasn’t enough of a gap to be a "parental figure," but Opal knew the subtext. They saw a girl living paycheck to paycheck in a building that smelled like wet wool and old radiator steam. Fortunately for her, the world was rarely in a rush to adopt teenage boys. He would likely age out of the system in three years, but Opal didn’t want him to just survive the system; she wanted him home. She was even willing to let him go if a "perfect" family appeared, but until then, she just wanted the time to be perfect.

She centered the vanilla birthday cake on the circular dining table with the precision of a jeweler. The scent of warm sugar and flour masked the dusty, ancient smell rising from the creaky floorboards. Vanilla was the only flavor Danny would touch—aside from carrot cake, which Opal found repulsive. She’d spent the morning frosting it with bright orange cream, piping pink flowers and simple swirls that felt a bit too juvenile. The 19! on top was the worst part; the exclamation point looked mocking, a loud shout of excitement she didn’t actually feel. She hadn't felt much for holidays since their parents died, but for Danny’s sake, she practiced her "happy face" in the hallway mirror. As long as she appeared happy, Danny was happy; and that was the only thing that kept Opal grounded.

To complete the illusion of a joyful life, she’d dolled herself up in a new burnt vermillion and white striped dress. It had flowy sleeves that made her feel more like a woman and less like a girl playing house. She tied the matching fabric into a prim bow at her back and stepped into silver strapped heels. Finally, she slid on a chunky headband. A year ago, in a fit of fleeting whimsy, she’d glued plastic smiley faces, rainbows, and pink hearts onto it. Now, it just served to keep her pin-straight black hair out of her eyes.

After placing two glasses of sparkling cider on the table and hiding the bottle in the back of the loudly buzzing fridge, she sat down. She watched the yellow glittery wax of the candles drip like slow, golden tears onto the frosting.

The click of the lock made her bolt upright. She’d given Danny a key, thinking it made her look trustworthy—a sister who provided a permanent harbor. Now, as the door swung open, she panicked, wondering if the caseworker would see it as a lapse in judgment.

She hugged her brother so tight she could feel the new breadth of his shoulders. He was taller now, a sudden growth spurt that made Opal wish she could reach out and grab the hands of a clock to stop them. The caseworker, a woman Opal privately dubbed "Agent Sunshine," stood in the doorway with a practiced, hollow smile.

“You have until ten,” the woman said, already moving toward the living room with a tabloid magazine.

The siblings sat across from each other. The apartment felt smaller with the agent looming on the sofa just a few feet away. Opal wondered if the woman was truly reading or if she was counting the dust motes on the shelves, waiting for Opal to slip up.

“Are you okay?” Opal asked softly, her hands folded tightly to hide their shaking.

Danny didn’t answer. Instead, he slid a small box wrapped in white paper across the table. Opal opened it with trembling fingers. Inside lay a thin gold chain with a glass sphere. At its center was a tiny, three-dimensional blue star dusted with gold specks. It was beautiful—strangely beautiful.

“How did you get this? Danny, how much was this?”

He shrugged, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Five-finger discount at some secret little shop.”

“Daniel!” Opal hissed, her eyes darting toward the living room. “You stole this? From a stranger? That’s so irresponsible.”

“Don’t be such a dove, Opie,” he teased, his icy blue eyes finally meeting hers. “You dig it, though?”

She couldn’t help it; she giggled. “Yes, I love it.”