Venus's friend Akira turned out to be a five-foot-tall force of nature with cotton candy pink hair and enough energy to power a small city. She met them at a bubble tea shop in the International District, wearing what could only be described as "kawaii meets apocalypse chic."
"So you're the runaways," she said, stirring her taro milk tea with theatrical flair. "Venus told me all about you. Well, not *all* about you—that would take forever and I have the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel."
Anthony nearly choked on his drink. "Did she just—"
"Compare herself to a rodent? Yes. I contain multitudes," Akira grinned. "Also, Walt Whitman references. I'm very well-rounded for a high school dropout."
Chelsea leaned over to Charlie. "I like her already."
"The squat's not exactly the Ritz," Akira continued, "but it's got four walls, most of a roof, and only occasionally smells like something died. Which is a step up from my last place, where something *had* actually died. Turns out it was just my roommate's relationship, but still."
Tara looked horrified. "Is that... normal here?"
"Honey, normal is relative. Like Einstein's theory, but with more piercings and questionable life choices."
Jon surprised everyone by snorting with laughter. "Did you just make a physics joke?"
"I'm a woman of many talents. I can also juggle, but only badly, and I once convinced a tourist that the Space Needle was actually a giant's abandoned chopstick."
"Please tell me they believed you," Kate giggled.
"For about ten minutes. Then their kid pointed out that giants probably don't eat sushi."
The squat was a three-story brick building that had once housed a discount furniture store. Now it was home to about fifteen young people who'd all learned that sometimes family is something you choose rather than something you're born into.
"Welcome to Casa de Chaos," Akira announced as she led them through a side door covered in graffiti. "Rules are simple: don't steal from housemates, don't bring cops, don't leave dirty dishes for more than three days, and absolutely no practicing interpretive dance after midnight. That last one is specific to our previous resident, Moonbeam, who thought 3 AM was the perfect time to express her feelings about capitalism through the medium of aggressive arm flailing."
The main floor had been converted into a common area with mismatched furniture that looked like it had been rescued from various dumpsters. A girl with bright blue hair was reading a book about sustainable farming while a guy with more tattoos than visible skin worked on fixing a broken guitar.
"That's Riot," Akira pointed to the girl, "and Ink. Don't ask about their real names unless you want a philosophical discussion about the nature of identity that'll last until next Tuesday."
"I can hear you," Riot called without looking up from her book.
"Good! Your hearing not as damaged as your taste in literature!"
"Hey, 'The Omnivore's Dilemma' is a classic!"
"So is 'Twilight,' but that doesn't make it good!"
Charlie found himself grinning. "Do they always—"
"Bicker like an old married couple? Pretty much. They've been friends since they were twelve and homeless together. Now they're eighteen and homeless together, but with better snacks."
Akira showed them to the second floor, where several rooms had been converted into sleeping spaces. "You can have the corner room. Previous tenants moved on to bigger and better things. By which I mean one got arrested and the other joined a commune in Oregon."
The room was larger than their hostel space, with actual windows and what might generously be called furniture. Someone had painted a mural on one wall—a cityscape that seemed to shift between Seattle and somewhere more fantastical.
"Bathroom's down the hall," Akira continued. "Hot water is theoretical, like my chances of becoming a responsible adult. Kitchen's downstairs, but fair warning—someone labeled all the food in the fridge with passive-aggressive notes. Apparently, there was a Great Yogurt War of last month that we're still recovering from."
"Yogurt war?" Tara asked weakly.
"Don't ask. Some wounds are too fresh. Speaking of which, Venus, your timing is perfect. Tonight's community dinner, and it's Anthony's turn to cook."
Everyone turned to look at the fifteen-year-old crust punk, who suddenly looked like a deer in headlights.
"I... don't really cook," he admitted.
"Define 'cook,'" Kate said gently.
"Um. I can open cans?"
"Perfect!" Akira clapped her hands. "We're having what I like to call 'Surprise Soup'—it's surprising because no one knows what's in it, including the person making it."
Two hours later, they were all gathered around a frankly impressive collection of mismatched bowls, eating what could only be described as "edible." Anthony had managed to combine canned tomatoes, various vegetables of questionable origin, and enough spices to mask any actual flavors.
"It's..." Jon paused, searching for words.
"An experience," Chelsea finished diplomatically.
"I think I can taste colors," Venus announced.
"That's just the expired oregano," Riot called from across the room. "Adds character."
"If by character you mean potential hallucinations," Ink added, strumming his newly-repaired guitar.
Kate patted Anthony's shoulder. "It's got... personality."
"Personality is one word for it," Charlie muttered, then caught Jon trying not to laugh and found himself smiling despite everything.
"Hey," Anthony protested, "at least I tried. When's the last time any of you cooked for seven people?"
"Fair point," Tara admitted. "I once burned water trying to make tea."
"How do you burn water?" several people asked simultaneously.
"Very carefully and with tremendous dedication to failure."
As the evening wore on, they found themselves pulled into the squat's easy rhythm of conversation and shared disaster. Someone produced a deck of cards with half the face cards missing ("We call it Existential Poker"), Kate started teaching Anthony how to make friendship bracelets ("It's basically macramé, but with more good intentions"), and Charlie discovered that Jon had strong opinions about the guitar tuning debate happening in the corner.
"I'm just saying," Jon was explaining to Ink, "if you're going to play punk, you might as well embrace the chaos of slightly out-of-tune strings."
"Spoken like someone who's never tried to play a proper chord progression," Charlie teased.
"I can play chords! I just choose not to. It's an aesthetic choice."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
For the first time since leaving Maplewood, they all felt something approaching normal. Not perfect, not safe, but normal in the way that teenagers everywhere are normal when they're figuring out who they are and where they belong.
Later, as they settled into their new sleeping arrangements, Venus checked her phone and frowned.
"Seventeen missed calls from my mom," she announced. "And about forty texts that I'm pretty sure are just crying emojis."
"My parents probably haven't noticed I'm gone yet," Tara said quietly. "They're at some corporate retreat in the Bahamas."
"Grandma knows," Chelsea said, speaking for both twins. "She always knows when we're up to something. It's like a superpower, but for guilt."
"Think they'll find us?" Kate asked.
Akira, who'd been listening from the doorway, shrugged. "Depends how hard they look. But here's the thing about being found—sometimes you have to let yourself be lost first."
As they settled in for their first night in the squat, Charlie found himself on a mattress next to Jon's sleeping bag. In the darkness, he could hear the other boy's quiet breathing, occasionally interrupted by the distant sounds of the city.
"Hey Jon?" he whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for not making fun of my cooking opinions earlier."
Jon was quiet for a moment. "Thanks for having cooking opinions. It's... nice. Having someone to argue with about stupid stuff."
Across the room, Anthony was already asleep, but Kate was still awake, listening to the sound of his breathing and thinking about how peaceful he looked when he wasn't carrying the weight of the world on his fifteen-year-old shoulders.
Outside, Seattle continued its nightly symphony, but inside Casa de Chaos, seven runaways were finally learning what it felt like to be home.