As her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room, she remembered where she was. On a thin mattress. Under a thinner blanket that smelled of Clorox. Close to her mother, who slept in the bed beside her. At the Hillside Valley Shelter on Vine Street. She had seen no hillsides and no valleys since she and her mother had arrived three days ago. Only cement sidewalks. Outside, cars zoomed past, music from the apartments nearby played loudly, and police sirens shrieked most of the night. “This is just temporary,” her mother had whispered as they had filled out the paperwork to enroll. Arielle, almost numb, had merely nodded. The walls were painted a bright blue, as if someone had tried to add artificial cheer. But the faces of the women who wordlessly watched Arielle and her mother from the plastic chairs in the recreation room were drawn. Their children, instead of running and chasing one another with loud games, played quietly and stayed close to their mothers. No amount of color would change anything.
