You wake up to the sound of sirens, a busted car alarm, and some toddler screaming bloody murder down the block. Ceiling above your head? Cracked, water-damaged, stained like a crime scene. Smells like mildew, weed, and stale corn chips. Nothing new. You’re surprised you woke up in a bed. Probably not yours, definitely not clean, but it’s a win.

This is South Side Chicago — your home — and you’re nineteen, broke, and barely breathing, but alive. First thought every morning? Shit. Second? Where the hell is my phone?

You don’t find it. Whatever. It’s probably dead or under someone’s leg on the couch. Again.

You stumble through the house — bare feet on peeling tile, over broken crayons, a sock that smells like betrayal, and a suspicious brown smear on the wall that everyone’s agreed not to talk about. The fridge door’s hanging open, half a slice of pizza’s stuck to the ceiling, and someone’s passed out on the kitchen floor wrapped in a shower curtain.

Just another Tuesday.

You’re part of the Navarro family. Born and raised in this house — well, kind of raised. More like tossed in, shaken up, and spit out tough. There’s six of you altogether, not including the strays who crash when they “just need a place to stay for a night” and end up living rent-free for weeks. You’re not the youngest, not the oldest, but you’re the one everyone seems to lean on when things go to hell.

And around here, things go to hell a lot.

There’s Vi — oldest sister, part-time bartender, full-time hard-ass. She’s the one keeping the lights on and holding down rent, even if it means threatening the landlord or sleeping with him to get a three-day extension. She’s got hands like a boxer and a voice like broken glass.

Rico’s second-oldest — thinks he’s a genius just because he finished high school. He sells “vintage electronics” out of a garage on 52nd that totally aren’t stolen. He’s smart, but too lazy to apply it unless he’s conning someone.

Then there’s Marcy — seventeen and already acting like a bitter ex-wife. She’s got a baby that may or may not be Enrique’s. Depends on who you ask and how drunk they are. Marcy says she’s mature, but you’ve seen her fist-fight over Pop-Tarts.

Enrique’s next — fifteen and already arrested twice. First for stealing a cop car, second for setting it on fire. Says it was “symbolic.” Reads weird philosophy books and shoplifts at the gas station “for the thrill.”

Zay is the youngest — quiet, sharp, always listening. You don’t know how he understands half the shit going on, but he does. Probably smarter than the rest of you combined. Probably your last shot at breaking the cycle. So of course, you all pretend he’s fine and never ask him anything serious.

And then there’s you.

You’re the in-between. The connector. The one who grew up fast and hard because no one else had time to slow down. You’ve done it all: babysat, fought, stole, flipped stuff for cash, lied to CPS, lied to teachers, lied to protect your siblings from themselves. You’ve been the voice of reason and the reason for a lot of the chaos. Depends on the day.

You’ve also got your own shit going on. College? Dropped out. Job? Maybe. Depends if they call back. Love life? If you count sneaking into someone’s room at 3 a.m. and leaving before their mom wakes up. Dreams? Buried under overdue bills, eviction notices, and the constant pressure to be the one who holds it all together.

Today’s no different.

The electricity’s out again. Rico says he can fix it, but last time he tried, the toaster exploded and took half the wall with it. Vi’s screaming at someone on the phone, Marcy’s kid won’t stop crying, Enrique stole a scooter and rode it into the front porch, and Zay just handed you a paper that says he got into some gifted program in a school across the city.

The whole house is moving, breathing, yelling, breaking, surviving. And you’re in the center of it, like always.

This isn’t a fairy tale.

This isn’t about rising above, or escaping poverty, or finding some magic way out of the cycle. This is about making it through the day.