The rainy season refused to leave.

One new caretaker sprayed bleach like it was perfume. When he walked down the narrow hallway with his spray bottle, Art and Thanom stopped moving. They stepped to the wall and lowered their heads as they walked past him—it was an instinctive 'duck walk' to ensure their heads were never higher than an elder's.

"Smells clean," he grunted, not looking at them.

"Yes, Uncle," they murmured in unison, keeping their eyes low until he passed.

The sky sank lower each day, pressing its weight into the rooftops. Nothing dried.

The roof leaked in nine places. The lights in the hallway flickered. The stringent scent of bleach burned their noses. Underneath it, the orphanage still smelled of damp wood, sweaty children, and slow decay.

At the dormitory entrance, the pile of mixed-up footwear grew damp even under the awning.

Thanom grabbed his shoes from the pile and sat on the top step near the entrance. "So when is the first session?" Art asked hesitantly, sitting down beside Thanom.

"Tomorrow," he blurted as he finished tying his laces, then he stood up and walked away.

Thanom clearly still didn't want to talk about what happened.

Since the incident in the shed, the Department of Children and Youth had turned the place upside down. They interviewed everyone. They checked the bruises, making sure everyone was properly treated.

For a terrifying week, Art thought Thanom and Mali were gone for good. But the decision finally came down: they could stay. Separation would cause "further emotional distress," the caseworker had said.

But there were conditions.

Thanom and Mali were required to go to weekly therapy sessions at the clinic in town. It was mandatory.

"Trauma processing," they called it.

Thanom preferred "annoying."

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Art didn't mind the rain but Thanom hated it.

He double checked the windows each night. He pressed rolled-up towels and old t-shirts into the seams. He scoured the area until he was sure not a single drop could get in.

"You're still recovering, maybe you should relax more." Art said, looking at the scars and bruises all over Thanom.

"I just don't like when water gets on things," Thanom muttered one evening, shoving a rag forcefully into a crack. He sounded angry, but his hands were shaking.

"What things?" Art asked from his cot, watching him.

"Anything I care about, really." Thanom exhaled, the glass already clouded with condensation. "I just need to do this. I don't wanna talk about it."

Thanom stopped for a moment and lowered his eyes.

"Only bad stuff happens when it rains," he said half to himself.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Peach was finally starting to feel better. She was almost back to her usual self.

But as Peach's color returned, Mali's began to fade.

Her cough started small. A tickle in her throat.

When she laid down at night, the coughing got worse.

She tucked deep into her pillow to muffle the sound.

Then it began to happen during the day. Her laugh came slower. Her hands stayed cold longer.

"She's fine, right?" Thanom said one evening, watching her doze off. "It's just the weather. Or exhaustion. Everyone is coughing lately."

The cough got worse—and then came the sound of trying to expel something thick and liquid from her lungs. It was a gurgling, heaving gasp that bounced off the walls in the silent room.

Art, bringing Mali soup, moved calmly and swiftly to her cot, catching Mali when she slumped over.

"Thanom, come here. Mali's not well."

Thanom hurried over, breath held, fists clenched.

Mali was too sick to cry. She curled into Thanom's arms, her breath coming in whistling rattles.

Thanom picked her up from the cot and started walking towards the hallway. "Come on," he called back to Art.

They waited outside the infirmary. Everything smelled like the bleach sprayed throughout the rest of the orphanage.

Thanom bounced his knee. His hands opened and closed. He looked at Mali, wrapped in a towel now, pressed tight against Art's chest.

"I should've paid more attention," he whispered nervously.

"You did," Art said, placing a hand on Thanom's shoulder.

"No. You did."

Art bit back a response as he looked down at the little girl shivering in his lap.

Thanom watched her breathe raggedly in Art's lap, surprised at how unbothered he felt with Art holding her. He was the brother, the one that should be protecting her, but it was Art who saved her from the closet.

His mind flashed back to the dark toolshed. To the yellow note. To the time she spent trapped in the dark, terrified and alone.

"It doesn't matter," Art said. "It only matters who cared and who was there for her."

Thanom stopped bouncing his knee.

"Thanks," he said quietly. "For being there for us."

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

After the infirmary visit Thanom snuck Mali into the East dorm. Art was already moving his cot, scraping the metal legs against the wood to push it against Thanom's.

Peach appeared, dragging Jate's cot into the gap between Thanom's and the wall. Jate laid down, then Peach squeezed herself next to him.

"Let's stay close, just for now," Peach whispered as she snuggled up to Jate.

Jate shifted, trying to find room in his now-crowded sleeping space. "If you snore…"

"I will, but you'll already be asleep, so hush."

Jate grumbled but stayed put.

Mali smiled. "Three cots turned into one big cot!"

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

The next day, they pretended to be sick—except, of course, for Mali, who was recovering, and Thanom, who was in fact actually sick.

They weren't trying to skip school—they just wanted to stay near each other.

Thanom's body punished him for the stress he'd been carrying. He shuddered through the day and his shirt soaked through with sweat as he slept, but he recovered quickly, his tenacity burning the virus out of his system.

Just as he sat up, ready for the day ahead, Art and Jate collapsed.

The sickness moved through them but kept them together.

Mali's recovery was the slowest. Her cough lingered, a dry rasp that made Thanom flinch.

There were mugs of hot lemongrass tea passed from hand to hand. There were bowls of rice soup left by the door and a comfortable silence everyone provided without being told.

Peach brought everyone honey water from the kitchen.

She sat by Mali's head, stroking her hair and whispering about rain spirits who only left when you named them.

Jate claimed his head hurt. Art would clench his 'nauseous' stomach that mysteriously only felt better when they were all curled together under shared blankets.

Some staff saw what was going on, but they never said anything. It was well understood that not all healing comes from medicine and bandages, so they gave the kids some space for a while.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

The rain finally turned from a relentless drill into a steady leak.

The mango tree outside lost some branches, and the front window had sealed itself with rust.

Peach stood at breakfast, hands raised like a prophet.

"We have a birthday among us," she declared to the table. "We must summon joy. Through Khanom Kluay."

Jate ducked his head, rubbing his eyes to hide his face. He kept his voice low, leaning toward her. "I don't need anything for my—"

"Nonsense," Peach cut him off, staring right at him. "You're eleven years old in eighty-eight minutes. Join us because you want to."

They snuck into the kitchen at dawn. Soon after they started, rice flour got everywhere. The counters. Their sleeves. Jate's eyebrows.

Thanom burned his wrist on the metal steamer and didn't seem to notice until Art gasped, dropped the spoon he was holding and ran to the freezer. He came back with a chunk of ice, pressing it tenderly against Thanom's skin.

"I'm following the recipe," Jate insisted, squinting through the flour haze at a wrinkled scrap of paper. "The paper says the ratio of rice flour to tapioca flour is critical."

"Bananas need to be bruised to be sweet," Peach said, smashing one dramatically. The mixture was grey and sticky, smelling of overripe fruit and sweet palm sugar.

"You seriously put six bananas in that?" Thanom asked, watching Peach tear banana leaves into small, cup-sized circles.

"Naturally," Peach replied. "The bananas were crying because they're old. We have to honor their tears."

"I'm not emotionally prepared to digest this," Jate muttered, trying to fold the sticky batter into the leaf cups without tearing them or spilling the coconut cream topping.

The steamer hissed on the gas burner, filling the room with a sweet-smelling fog.

When they finally pulled the lid off, the cakes were wobbly, grey, and glistening with condensation. They didn't look like the ones the street vendors sold at the Sunday Walking Street, but they were more special somehow.

Peach handed a birthday banana treat to Jate.

She leaned in close and sang lightly so only he could hear.

"Happy Birthday to you, Phi."

Mali took one, blowing on the hot banana leaf. She took a bite, chewed slowly, and smiled.

"Tastes like chicken!"