When Fightest first went to live with the Rochelles, the quiet almost drove her mad.  For Fightest, sixteen years in the city had made the sirens, traffic, and street fights sound like a lullaby, and when it was replaced by the quiet hum of the window AC unit and the sound of the June bugs careening into the porch light, her pulse skyrocketed.  She would have snuck out if not for the aforementioned air conditioner plugging up the window.

And, of course, for Lou, who was sleeping beside her, though she had her own room next door.

“Please don’t mess things up this time,” Lou had begged from Fightest’s doorway that night. She was standing in the doorway wearing pajamas, a pair of old gym shorts and a tiny tanktop without a bra.

“Put some clothes on,” Fightest hissed.  “What if Mr. Rochelle sees you walking around like a…