FOUR LOGS ON A PYRE

The apartment was too damn small for the number of people living in it. Gina had done the math more than once, just to confirm her ongoing misery. Two parents, three kids, one grandma, and one ancient, yapping Chihuahua in a three-bedroom space that should have housed half that many people. Privacy was a myth, personal space a joke. And right now, her personal space was under siege. Again. “Get out of my room!” Gina snapped, slamming the door against her little brother’s shoulder before he could dig any deeper into her stuff. “I just needed—” “I don’t care what you needed! You don’t need it from my room!” At twelve years old, Marco was already shaping up to be a master thief—at least when it came to stealing her phone charger, her perfume, and, for some godforsaken reason, her deodorant. Gina had caught him swiping her stuff at least three times this week, and she was one step away from breaking his scrawny little arms. “Mom said you have to share,” Marco taunted, rubbing his shoulder. “Mom also said to respect people’s boundaries. Get. Out.” “Make me.” Oh, she would. Gina squared up, eyes blazing, ready to put her little brother in a headlock. Then the door swung open again, and in waltzed her little sister, Sofia, acting like this was her room. “Ugh, you two fight over the dumbest stuff,” Sofia huffed, flipping her long, curly hair over her shoulder. At fifteen, she had perfected the art of annoying Gina while somehow always taking Marco’s side. Gina turned on her. “Did you even knock?” “Why would I knock? You don’t own this place.” “Says the person who was literally wearing my sneakers yesterday. What, am I the neighborhood donation bin now?” Sofia rolled her eyes. “They looked better on me anyway.” “Get out. Both of you.” Marco grinned. “Nah. I like it in here. It smells nice.” That was it. Gina lunged. What followed was three minutes of absolute chaos—Marco scrambling to dodge Gina’s death grip, Sofia laughing her ass off, and the dog losing its mind outside the door, barking like it was about to call 911. Then came the voice that made everyone freeze: “GINA! MARCO! SOFIA! ENOUGH!” Their mom. From the kitchen, where she was probably two minutes away from throwing a choncla at them. Silence. A tense pause. Then, because he lived for pain, Marco muttered under his breath, “She started it.” Gina grabbed the nearest pillow and whipped it at his head. He yelped and ran. Sofia, still laughing, followed after him, but not before grabbing Gina’s hairbrush off the dresser. “Sofía!” “Borrowing it! Chill!” The second they were gone, Gina slammed the door shut and locked it. Not that it mattered. The lock had been broken since last summer, when Marco had kicked it open because he thought she was hiding snacks inside. She flopped onto her bed, exhausted—not from work, not from holiday stress, but from the simple, never-ending battle of having to share every damn thing in this tiny, suffocating apartment. Her family was loud. Messy. Intrusive as hell. And Gina? Gina was a fighter. Always had been. She didn’t take s**t from anyone—not her siblings, not her parents, and sure as hell not from some nosy neighbor who once tried to tell her to keep it down when she was arguing outside. She was dominant, sharp-tongued, and ready to throw hands at the slightest provocation. Which is why being trapped here—in this tiny, overcrowded apartment—was driving her insane. And why she was more than happy to escape for a few hours and do a shift of deliveries tonight, even on Christmas Eve. Because out there? In her car? Driving alone in the quiet of the night? At least no one was stealing her damn hairbrush. The delivery hub wasn’t much—just a small, cramped backroom in the local pizzeria, attached to the narrow kitchen where the cooks shouted over the sound of sizzling oil and clanking trays. The air smelled like garlic, burnt cheese, and just a hint of sweat from too many people moving in too small of a space. But to Gina? It might as well have been a VIP lounge. She loved it here. Not because the job was amazing—God knew it wasn’t—but because it was her escape. Away from Marco. Away from Sofía. Away from her mom screaming for someone to take out the trash. Here, she wasn’t Gina, the Big Sister, the Human Shield, the Family Mediator. Here, she was just Gina, the fastest, most badass driver in the building. She walked in, pulling off her hoodie, already grinning as the music blasted from the tiny Bluetooth speaker in the corner. “Look who it is!” called Tony, the weekend shift manager, spinning a pizza box in one hand like he was some kind of culinary magician. “You’re late, hotshot!” “I’m two minutes late,” Gina corrected, slapping on her name tag. “Two minutes in pizza time is life or death.” “Tony, last week I watched you take a twenty-minute ‘smoke break’ that somehow involved you disappearing down the street to get a lottery ticket.” “Mind ya business,” Tony said, grinning. “You on shift ‘til close?” “Yup,” Gina said, popping her gum. “Somebody’s gotta make the magic happen.” She didn’t even mind the work—not the greasy paper bags, not the smell of pepperoni that clung to her clothes, not even the drunk guys who always tipped in crumpled-up singles. She loved the energy here—the rush, the jokes, the music, the feeling of being in motion. It wasn’t home. And that was what made it perfect. But tonight, something was different. She felt it the second she clocked in. The energy was off. And then she realized why. “Wait—where’s Mari?” she asked, looking around. Mari was her favorite co-worker—her ride-or-die on the late shifts. They always tag-teamed the best routes, snuck extra breadsticks for each other, and roasted Tony whenever he acted like a hard-ass manager. Tony sighed. “Mari’s out sick. So you’re covering some of her drives.” Gina groaned dramatically. “Ugh. She abandoned me.” “She sent you a message, though,” Tony said, nodding toward her phone. “Prolly feeling guilty about it.” Rolling her eyes, Gina pulled out her phone and checked her messages. Mari: Ughhhh I’m dying. But hey, I left you some notes on my routes. You got this. Also, pretend you’re devastated I’m not there. Cry about it. Gina smirked, thumbs flying. Gina: Devastated. Heartbroken. Will never recover. Also, thanks for the excuse to get out my house. She tossed her phone back in her pocket, already feeling the relief settle in. Mari might be gone, but work was still work. The best kind of distraction. “Alright,” she said, grabbing the night’s first order. “Let’s do this.” The second she stepped outside, her mind cleared. The cold air hit her face, crisp and sharp, but it felt good—like a shock to the system. Her car was already warming up in the lot, headlights glowing in the dark. The road was waiting. And Gina was ready to chase it.