The bus rolled into Seattle's Greyhound terminal as the afternoon sun struggled through layers of Pacific Northwest clouds. After eight hours of fitful sleep and shared gas station snacks, the seven runaways stepped onto the platform with stiff legs and uncertain hearts.
"Smells like piss and possibility," Anthony muttered, shouldering his patched backpack. Kate smiled at that, finding poetry in his cynicism.
Chelsea stuck close to Charlie as they navigated the terminal. Despite their different aesthetics—his anarchist patches versus her white laces and Fred Perry polo—the twins moved with an unconscious synchronization that spoke of sixteen years spent watching each other's backs.
"Now what?" Tara asked, her preppy facade finally cracking completely. Her cardigan was wrinkled, her pearls crooked, and for the first time in her life, she looked perfectly imperfect.
"Now we figure out how to not die," Venus said pragmatically, her gyaru platform boots clicking against the concrete. She'd been quiet during the bus ride, texting someone whose identity she kept to herself. "I know a place. Sort of."
The "sort of" turned out to be a youth hostel in Capitol Hill that Venus had found through a forum for Japanese street fashion enthusiasts. The building was narrow and tired-looking, wedged between a vintage clothing store and a coffee shop that advertised "anarchist espresso."
"How much?" Charlie asked the desk clerk, a woman with purple hair and more piercings than seemed structurally sound.
"Sixty a night for a seven-bed dorm," she replied without looking up from her zine. "Pay by the week and it's three-fifty."
Tara wordlessly pulled out her debit card. The others watched as she paid for their first week of freedom, each transaction bringing her closer to the inevitable moment when her parents would freeze her accounts.
The dorm room was cramped but clean, with bunk beds lining the walls and one small window that looked out onto the alley behind the building. It smelled like industrial disinfectant and teenage dreams deferred.
"Dibs on bottom bunk," Anthony called out, dropping his pack on the bed nearest the door. Kate set her hemp bag down on the bunk above his, and something passed between them—a quiet understanding that they were already becoming something more than just fellow runaways.
Jon claimed a corner bed and immediately curled up with his back to the room, earbuds in, letting the familiar weight of his depression settle over him like a security blanket. But when Charlie awkwardly perched on the edge of the bed across from him, Jon found himself pulling out one earbud.
"What are you listening to?" Charlie asked, his usual punk bravado replaced by something gentler.
"Joy Division," Jon replied. "Seemed appropriate."
Charlie snorted. "Christ, you really are emo." But he said it without malice, and when Jon offered him the other earbud, Charlie took it.
Chelsea watched her brother with interest. In all their years of shared rebellion against their grandmother's gentle disappointment, she'd never seen Charlie show this kind of careful attention to another person. It was... unexpected.
"Food," Venus announced, checking her phone. "There's a place called Dick's that's supposed to be cheap and iconic. Very American."
"Dick's Burgers," Tara nodded. "I read about it in a travel guide once. Before I thought I'd be visiting Seattle for college interviews instead of..." She gestured vaguely at their surroundings.
They walked through Capitol Hill as a pack, seven misfits trying to look like they belonged in a city full of other beautiful weirdos. The neighborhood felt different from Maplewood—more accepting of strange hair and stranger clothes, less interested in conformity.
At Dick's, they ordered food with the careful mathematics of limited resources. Anthony and Kate shared fries while debating the ethics of corporate agriculture. Venus tried to maintain her gyaru aesthetic while eating a hamburger, which proved more challenging than expected. Tara methodically worked through a deluxe burger like she was solving an equation.
"So what's the plan?" Chelsea asked, stealing one of Charlie's fries. "We can't live in that hostel forever."
"Jobs," Jon said quietly. It was the most he'd spoken since they'd arrived. "There's got to be places that hire under-the-table. I can wash dishes or whatever."
"I could read tarot," Kate offered. "There's always tourists who want their fortunes told."
"Street art," Charlie added. "I'm good with a spray can. Could do commissions."
They were interrupted by a commotion outside. Through the window, they could see a group of street kids not much older than themselves arguing with two police officers. One of the kids, a girl with a mohawk and a face full of piercings, was being handcuffed.
"Shit," Anthony breathed. "That could be us."
The reality of their situation settled over them like Seattle's famous drizzle—persistent and inescapable. They were minors without guardians in a city that ate runaways for breakfast. Their money wouldn't last forever. Their families would be looking for them by now.
"Hey," Venus said suddenly, looking at her phone. "My friend Akira—the one I've been texting? She's been living here for two years. Says there's a squat in the International District where kids like us crash. It's not legal, but it's safer than the streets."
"Squat?" Tara asked, her prep school vocabulary failing her.
"Abandoned building that people live in without permission," Anthony explained. He would know.
As they walked back to the hostel through streets that smelled like rain and coffee, each of them was lost in their own thoughts. Charlie found himself walking closer to Jon, their shoulders occasionally brushing. Chelsea noticed and filed it away for later teasing. Kate hummed softly to herself while Anthony listened, learning the melody by heart.
That night, crowded into their narrow dorm room, they lay in their bunks and listened to the sounds of the city through thin walls. Car horns and sirens and the occasional shout from the alley below—the soundtrack of their new life.
"Charlie?" Jon's voice was barely a whisper in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For earlier. The music thing."
Charlie was quiet for so long that Jon thought he'd fallen asleep. Then: "Don't mention it. We're all we've got now, right?"
From her bunk, Chelsea smiled in the darkness. Her brother was changing already, becoming something softer and more open than the angry punk kid who'd stormed out of Maplewood. Maybe they all were.
Outside, Seattle hummed its electric lullaby, indifferent to seven teenagers trying to figure out how to build lives from the wreckage of their childhoods. But for the first time in years, each of them fell asleep thinking that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow might be better than yesterday.