"Mom, the chicken bones are really tasty tonight," I joke as I set the single bowl on the table. "You always joke when your stomach's screaming," my mother says without looking up from the bills spread across the counter. My father coughs from the couch. "Don't scare her," he says in a voice thin as paper. "Scare me?" I sit down. "I live here, remember? I'm the official resident ghost." My mother snaps a tired smile. "Eat while it's hot." The kitchen smells of broth and old bread. The light is a bare bulb that hums. "We're short this month," my mother says, folding a paper. "Again." I spoon rice. "We can cut something else. I can—I'll pick up another shift." "You picked up three already," my father says. He tries to reach for my hand and misses. "You rest," my mother tells him. "Stop acting like you're fine to shut me up. You're not fine." "I'm fine," he says. "I just need to... catch my breath." He breathes wrong. The word lands in the room. "You always say that," my mother answers. I put my bowl down. "I'll audition this weekend. I swear." My mother snorts. "Auditions pay in hope and crumbs." "I don't do crumbs." I laugh too loud. "I do roles and rent money. Same thing, different outfit." My father chuckles. It's a short laugh. "You'll be on stage. We'll clap." My