I live in the hottest place in the world. The fourth floor of an apartment building in downtown Phoenix, Arizona, squeezed next to a huge parking garage. Concrete retains heat and this city is stifling, even in April.

Every night at nine I get home from work and school, carrying my whole day in one backpack. I get off the city bus, reach the building with my shoulders sore, and take the only elevator up and up. One night I’m joined by someone who looks just as drained as I am, with drooping eyes and slumped shoulders. He steps into the elevator behind me.

“Which floor?” I ask him. I’m too tired to deal with him if he’s a threat, if he wants to rape me or mug me, but I keep an eye on him just the same.

“Four,” he says. He’s tall, probably in his twenties. He has a Roman nose and jaw, and his hair consists of dark brown curls that fall to his shoulders.

We ride the creaking elevator in silence and part ways at the top with a nod.

It’s about a quarter mile from the elevator doors on the parking garage to my studio apartment, almost halfway around the building. That’s how big this complex is.

I get home, my tiny kitchen humming with the refrigerator and my bed devoid of clutter, awaiting my dead-tired body to fall into it.

The next day I do the same thing. Wake up at six to go to school. Work hard on who-cares classes so I can get a high school diploma in two months. Go to Starbucks and do my homework for an hour. Change into my Starbucks uniform and work till eight. Take the hour-long bus ride home with dropouts and homies and tired wrinkled people who look older than they are.

I get off at the bus stop for my complex. I’m halfway to the elevator when I see the same guy who rode it with me last night. He didn’t ride my bus, but he’s here at the same time. He walks with tired, long-legged steps to the elevator, the high, flickering fluorescent lights casting our shadows in weird directions. I reach the elevator three steps before him and nod at him while we wait for it to descend.

“You live here?” I ask. It’s an obvious question, but my tired brain can’t think of anything else. He doesn’t look like such a low-life like many of the others here. He’s wearing jeans and a faded plaid shirt with a collar. His dark locks obscure one of his eyes and half of his Roman nose.

“Yes,” he says. His voice is warm, like coffee.

I nod as the elevator dings. I press the button for 4 without asking him. We again ride in silence. He hunches his shoulders under his small backpack, one arm weighed down with a fourth-hand briefcase that has cigarette butt scars.

We step out of the elevator, nod at each other, and part ways once again. He goes south, toward the inner conglomeration of apartments and passed-out drunks. I skirt around the living spaces till I have to squeeze between them to my door. I get home, eat some rice and tomato soup, and conk out.

The next day I’m a zombie. I had bad dreams about a masked intruder with a boiling coffee sprayer that woke me up at three. I spent the rest of the night trying to block out the snoring of the man above me and worrying about someone breaking through the thin walls with something worse than a coffee sprayer. I struggle to keep my eyes open during school, and chug two cups of black coffee when I get to my job. That’s the only perk to working at Starbucks, at least in this part of town. Customer service is more difficult than I care to admit to my manager, but an unlimited supply of coffee makes it doable.

After a stoner comes in stating that he was ripped off on his latte, I wonder to myself why I’m doing this. What’s the point? Sure, my parents are gone so I need a job, deciding long ago that I’d never be homeless. What was it my dad always said before he died three years ago? “Rachel, give yourself a chance. Reach higher than I did. Don’t be satisfied with whatever’s easiest. Do something that challenges you.”

Yeah, whatever. He could have given me an example. Mom couldn’t have. I got a nice, if unpredictable, mom until I was sixteen. Then our part of town ruined her life and mine. She was in and out of rehab, always nice to me at home, but it was hard when my own mother was mentally ill, even though my dad loved her. At least my siblings were miscarriages. I didn’t want them to have to live through that.

I don’t dare to doze on the bus ride home. One of my co-workers did that and woke up with his wallet and jacket stolen. At any rate, my dad made me take a self-defense class my first year of high school. When I’m more awake, I spend the majority of the bus ride thinking of how to incapacitate every single person around me.

I get off at my stop and pause for a moment. My usual scan-and-assess reveals nothing out of the ordinary, though my chronically sleep-deprived brain could be playing tricks. I take a few steps into the massive parking garage. Most of the cars on this first floor belong to slightly richer people who don’t live here. They’re parking their cars in the most convenient location next to their surrounding apartment complexes with real palm trees and grass.

I look around for the elevator boy. I finally spot him at the west entrance, getting out of a dingy car, waving half-heartedly as it drives away, and beginning his long strides toward the elevator.

I have to walk faster this time to be the first one to reach the elevator. I press the up button just as he reaches me.

“Hey,” he says.

I nod. He looks up at the too-dim lights that make the building seem even seedier and scarier.

The elevator takes its sweet time. “You just move here?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He looks down at his scuffed converse. “Closer to my job.”

“My bus ride takes an hour.” I nod empathetically.

The ding ushers us inside the steel box. He presses the 4 that pulls us to the poorest floor.

“See ya,” he says as he steps out.

I have an essay to write and a math test to study for. I groan as I walk in my door. My studio apartment doesn’t have a living room—those cost more. I eat canned clam chowder and write my essay on my bed. Math is not something I can do at night. I promise myself I’ll do it on the bus ride tomorrow.

The clam chowder was expired and gives me mild food poisoning. I wake up at 11:30, right after falling asleep, and throw up everything for the next two hours. The only thing I hate more than math and Starbucks customers and waking up in the middle of the night is throwing up. Even when I flush the vomit, the room still smells of it—how can it not, with the bathroom only inches from my bed?

I feel a little claustrophobic, not for the first time. What if someone broke in while I was throwing up? I’d be helpless.

I rinse my mouth out with the city’s fluoridated and calcium-filled water and sleep for four hours.

I bomb my math test, but the essay is okay. I have to print it at the school, since even though I have my dad’s printer, I don’t have enough cash to buy the ink. Starbucks sustains me once again, just barely. It seems that coffee is my drug like meth was my mom’s.

I arrive at the apartment complex with my only thought being sleep.

Elevator Boy gets dropped off and reaches the elevator button before me. I look at his eyes and notice they’re blue.

“You ok?” he asks when we step in the elevator.

I immediately go on the defensive. “Fine. Why?” No one who lives in this building has good intentions, so any personal questions are probably time bombs.

He points under his eyes. “You have bags here. You look tired.” He has long fingers. Piano fingers. My dad played the piano.

“I’m fine. Is there anyone in this goddamn place who isn’t tired?” I challenge.

He looks up at the elevator lights that have chewing tobacco and a piece of gum stuck on them. I feel slightly bad for being rude, but that’s just my tired brain thinking things it shouldn’t.

We reach the top. He pauses, looks after me as I walk southeast. I turn around. I can’t put my hands on my hips because my backpack is too heavy, but I do the gesture with my eyes.

“You ok to walk to your apartment?” he asks.

“Been doing it for years.” It’s a lie. Months would be the truth. I wave him away and pause after a hundred yards to make sure he’s not following me. He’s walking, but looks back and sees me stopped. I can barely see his wave when he turns the corner into the muddle of places people call home.

I look in the mirror when I get home and wash the gunk of the day off my face. I always look okay for school, a little makeup to cover any blemishes, my straight auburn hair in a high ponytail, jeans and a t-shirt that fits well. Easy to find stuff like that at Goodwill. But I look at my face more closely. My lips are kind of thin. My nose is small and okay looking. I have green eyes, but my skin is tan enough to not have freckles. No one ever told me I was pretty when I was little. I was too scrawny, or my ears were too big, or something about me just wasn’t right.

My head suddenly dips and I can barely keep my eyes open enough to stumble to bed. I’m too tired to eat and my brain overrides my stomach in this case.

The next day is Friday. Not that I necessarily look forward to the weekend—Saturday and Sunday I’m at Starbucks all day. But at least I get more sleep.

My alarm hardly competes with the fuzzy warmth in my mind of dreams and blankets and pillows. When it outweighs my slumber, I drag myself across the floor to brush my teeth. I take a thirty-second shower—the hot water is unpredictable—and eat some oatmeal.

The day is long. I always thought that if I got a normal night’s sleep after a few nights of deprivation, I’d feel better. I’ve come to learn this is not the case. I need extra sleep to recover from the lost hours, extra sleep that I get very rarely.

I have to read on the bus ride, even though it makes me queasy, to keep myself awake. Better nauseous and have all my money than sleeping with my possessions stolen.

The bus is a couple minutes later than usual. I pull my aching body and my 15-pound backpack through the concrete slabs that make the entrance to my home. Elevator Boy is waiting at the elevator.

“Hey,” he says as I draw nearer.

I look at him but can’t think of a response.

“You sure you’re okay?” He bends down a little to look at my eyes, minimizing the three-foot space between us.

“Whoa.” I hold out my hand in a stop sign.

“Sorry.” He seems embarrassed and shuffles his feet. I notice the elevator button hasn’t been pressed and I press it.

“Why were you waiting to press the button?” I ask in an irritated voice. Every second I’m not in that elevator is a second I can’t sleep.

He shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t mugged or anything.”

Why would he care? “Well, I’m fine.”

Someone else is using the elevator, on the second floor, and I shift my backpack in impatience.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Daniel.”

I nod.

“What’s yours?”

“Rachel.”

The elevator is going up, not down. I silently curse the people using it on the third floor.

“Where do you work, Rachel?”

“Starbucks.” I point to the green logo on the strap of my backpack. “You?”

“Fry’s. I’m the guy who takes all the carts inside.” He gives me a half smile.

The elevator finally reaches our level. Daniel is closer to the entrance, so I wait for him to go in first, but he holds out his hand for me. I nod and step in. Chivalry isn’t something usually practiced on this side of town. No one has the energy for it.

I press the 4 and the metal box takes us higher. I’m tired, so tired. The coffee doesn’t work as well when I have it so much.

We get to the top and I again wait for Daniel to get out; he’s closer to the entrance. He holds his hand out for me like it’s nothing and I walk out into the concrete pathways. I nod at him and start toward my apartment, looking out for any creeps hanging around. My foot catches on the edge of the sidewalk and I stumble, my backpack pulling me down. I scrape my knees and one hand, but I’m too tired to care. I slowly start to push myself up.

“Are you okay?” Daniel offers me a hand. I ignore it.

“Yeah,” I grunt, awake now. I try to stand but apparently I twisted my ankle a bit. I stumble again and he catches my arm and my backpack.

“Need help up?” He’s not smiling, just looking at me with that concerned look. He’s shy, I realize.

I grumble and accept his arm.

“Would you like me to carry your backpack?” he asks.

“No, I can do it.”

He looks in disbelief at my ankle.

“Fine. Thanks.” I hobble to the studio apartment area with him at my right side. “I’ll take it from here,” I say.

“Will you be all right?” he asks again.

“I’m fine, okay?” I see something in his eyes that makes me want to examine him further. “Thanks for your help.” I raise my hand firmly as I walk away. He watches for a moment, then starts off toward his place. I can’t be too open, or he might take advantage of that. I’ve heard screams from other apartments at odd hours of the night. For some reason, though, I doubt Daniel was ever the cause of one of those screams.

I sit on the edge of my bed with my backpack still on my shoulders. I should go to sleep. Right now. But I can’t move. There’s a buzzing in my chest that is simultaneously locking me to my bed and lifting me toward the ceiling. Finally, I lie down. My dreams have palm trees and grass and shaggy brown locks.

Saturday gives me too much time to think. Starbucks is slow and I can’t concentrate on my homework. I don’t have many friends I can text or talk to—I don’t have time for them and I don’t want to make friends who are poor and into drugs and have weird love lives. The last generation already did that for me.

My thoughts turn to the subject I’ve been avoiding for the past two years. The one I always got asked as a kid. “What are you going to be when you grow up?” Stupid question. What is “grown up?” I’m still in high school, but I live on my own. Is that grown up? I’ve never had a boyfriend. Does that make me not grown up? My dad’s dead and my mom’s crazy. Does that make me grown up? What am I supposed to do for the rest of my life?

The bus ride home is slow, until the fourth stop. I’m looking at the design of the cracks and scratches in the ceiling, and almost fall off my seat as Daniel gets on. He raises his eyebrows and nods when he sees me. He walks closer, and I move over to make room for him. It’s probably a bad idea, as the window seat will leave me with less escape room, but I don’t care.

We sit awkwardly for a while, then he asks, “How was your day?”

I shrug, aware of the five inches of bus seat between us. Five inches of friendship or potential danger. “It was slow.” He nods understandingly. “How was yours?”

“Just stocking at Fry’s. My younger brothers and I always made fun of the stocking guys, and now I’m one of them.” He looks at me and the bus jolts over a bump.

“You have younger brothers?”

He looks away, clenching his teeth a little. “One now. The other one…died four years ago.”

Oh. “My dad…died a few years ago too.”

“I’m sorry.” He really seems to mean it. He makes a jerky gesture with his hand, like he wants to hold mine but thinks better of it. A little spark flares in me.

“What’s your other brother like?” Anything to get off the subject of death.

“He’s a little twerp. He’s in seventh grade, still living with my parents. I love him though.” A half smile creases his cheek.

“What are your parents like?” They’re both alive and not mental, I’m sure.

He shrugs. “Normal, I guess. They had me move out at eighteen to learn some life skills. I was mad at first, but I appreciate it now. Besides, it was hard for them to support three—two kids.” He coughs.

I look out at the dim streetlights hurrying by. I feel a double twinge in my chest—for my dead family and Daniel’s. Why does life take away the people you love?

“What’s your mom like?” he asks.

I wince. I don’t know exactly what to say.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Daniel says, reddening.

“No…she just…has problems.” I clench my fist. “A lot of problems.”

“I’m really sorry.” Again, that jerky hand movement. His brown eyes are full of concern.

I shrug. “I’m used to it now.”

The bus stops by our apartment, and Daniel stands up and makes his usual gesture for me to go ahead of him. My dad never did that for me.

We walk to the elevator, and I pause before it, letting Daniel press the up button. I can’t keep a small grin from my face.

“Are you working tomorrow too?” Daniel asks.

I nod. Then I wonder if I could take a risk. “Yeah, I work at the Starbucks on 67th and Peoria.” I try to make my voice casual. Maybe he’ll stop by there. The elevator reaches the fourth floor and we walk out. The jarring fluorescent lights of reality hit me and I realize he won’t. None of the people in my life had happy endings. I’m stupid to hope.

“See ya later.” He waves to me as he walks to his apartment.

I’m a little less tired on Sunday. A customer accidentally smashes their lemon loaf and I eat that for lunch. It’s my favorite Starbucks treat, even smashed. Daniel doesn’t come all day, and I want to bang my head against the wall for even telling him where I worked. Idiot.

Around seven, I’m taking orders monotonously when a tall, shaggy man appears in front of me. I jump—and my stomach jumps higher—when I see it’s Daniel. He looks exhausted and extremely nervous at the same time.

“Can I get a tall cafe latte, please?” he asks, looking around the coffee shop.

I nod and take his order.

When his drink is done, I write Daniel on it with shaky hands. I was so sure he wouldn’t come. I have no idea what to do now. Every phrase I had prepared to say to him falls out of my brain.

He takes his drink, hesitates, then stands in the corner, looking at me, until there’s no line. He shuffles back to the counter and looks down.

“Can I help you?” I don’t know what else to say. This is so awkward.

“Hey, um, when are you done?” He raises his eyes just enough to meet mine.

“Like with my shift?”

“Yeah.” He licks froth off his lips.

“I get off at 8,” I say. He nods. I bite my tongue. “So what brought you here?” So stupid. I could have said anything else.

“You…you seem nice…and…” The words are dragged out of him, and the last half of his sentence sticks to his tongue. He looks down again and I see his hands clenching. I want to leave the counter and hide in the back.

“Don’t be satisfied with whatever’s easiest,” my dad said. “Do something that challenges you.” I decide to take this as a challenge.

I manage a smile, though it probably looks like a grimace. “Thanks.”

“Uh…I’m going to…do some work.” His back stiffens. “What time do you get off?” My nervousness falls away and I bite back a laugh.

“Eight.”

“Okay.” He stiffens a bit more, then walks to one of the back tables and sits down, sipping his latte. I want to throw up my hands. What’s the deal with this guy? What’s the deal with any guy? I don’t get it.

For the next hour, Daniel alternates between looking out the window and peering at me through his long dark locks. He seems to be doing homework. One of my coworkers notices and nudges me when he looks my way again. “Shut up!” I hiss. I don’t know whether to giggle or snarl or drown myself in the toilet.

Finally, I’m released. I take off my apron and put all my stuff into my enormous backpack. Daniel comes over to me, his dilapidated briefcase in hand. I wait.

“Do you want me to get you anything?” he asks.

I shrug. “Nah, thanks. I get free coffee here.”

“Okay.” He looks away.

“What now?” I ask.

He’s so tall, looking down at me with those blue eyes. “So, uh, do you want to hang out?”

Here it is. The question I was dreading. Or anticipating, I’m not sure. “Where?”

“Maybe the park?”

“What park?” I didn’t know any parks existed in this part of town.

“The one a few blocks down, on 75th.” He furrows his eyebrows, as if any Phoenician worth their coffee would know about this place.

I shrug. It’s a main road, so it’ll be well lit. And I have my pocketknife if something goes wrong. “Sure.”

His shy smile pops up again and I follow him out the door.

The park surprises me. Its grass is lush, and its trees look much better cared for than most people around here. Daniel sets his briefcase on a metal picnic table and I sit on the other side. He looks at me for a while, not saying anything. I’m certainly not going to start the conversation.

“I’m glad you came here with me.” He looks more at ease among these trees than I’ve seen before. “Do you want to know why I asked you to hang out?”

I give a tiny nod, noticing how well his Roman nose accents his facial structure.

“It’s because you seem calm.” I sit up straight, confused. He continues in a rush, “Most people are always tired, complaining, and sick of life. You seem tired, but you don’t mope. You just keep going with determination. And I really like that.” He pulls a piece of paper out of his briefcase.

I risk a comment. “You seem pretty determined yourself, coming to my Starbucks when you’re so tired.” I point to the bags under his eyes.

He laughs, and it reminds me of the espresso machine turning out shots. And it has the same effect as espresso—filling me with energy and giving life a positive light.

He pushes the paper toward me. I can’t help a gasp slipping out when I see it. It’s an impressively accurate drawing of my profile, turned slightly outward. But it doesn’t look like the usual me I see in the mirror. This girl has a calm, confident smile, sparkling eyes, and she’s beautiful.

I breathe deeply through my nose and push the paper back toward him. “I don’t know what to say.”

His smile evaporates. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, very much. It’s a good likeness.” I fold my hands in front of my face, mortified. I’ve never had anyone think of me like this. I’ve never known anyone who thought I was beautiful. Even my dad.

I drop a hand to point to the drawing. “This is your work?”

He blushes. “Kind of. I’m an artist.”

“Oh.” That’s cool.

“Are you still in school?” he asks. The topic change catches me off guard.

“Yes. High school, that is. I’m almost done.”

“Ah.” He frowns a moment.

“I’m eighteen,” I note. “Hence the living-on-my-own thing.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Your mom…couldn’t support you at all?” His question is tentative, but it still stings. I shake my head.

“I’m sorry.” He looks away, at the trees, and I do too. They’re some kind of deciduous tree, which is nice to see in this desert state. “What are you planning to do after you graduate?”

I sigh and shrug my shoulders. “What is there to do? Work and survive, I guess.”

Then I think of the question everyone always asked me. “What are you going to do when you grow up?”

It catches him off guard and I smirk.

“Uh…I think I am grown up.”

“Sorry.” I’m still smiling. “Everyone asked me that when I was a kid and it always bothered me.”

“Well…I’m saving up money right now,” he says seriously. “I’ve been saving as much as I can for the past two years. That’s why I’m living in the same building as you.” He nods at me.

“Saving for a house?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Then what?”

“You would make fun of me if I told you.”

“I wouldn’t. I don’t even know you enough to be able to do that.”

He peers at me through his hair again, for a long time. Finally he sighs and looks at the grass. “I’m saving up to travel to New York to enter an art exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art.”

A thrill runs through my spine. I’ve never met anyone like this guy. Everyone I know just wants to survive, maybe make a little more money sometime. New York is a pretty lofty goal.

I again think back to my dad, “Reach higher than I did.” Daniel is definitely reaching. But what do I want to do after I graduate? I don’t want to go to college anytime in the next ten years—I just want to be done with school. Daniel could become something great. What if we got to know each other more? I smile. Maybe life can get better.

“I like that,” I tell him. “That’s a noble goal.”

A surprised smile lights up his face. “You really think so?”

I nod, slowly at first, then more emphatically as I consider what I know. This guy is responsible. He thinks ahead. He doesn’t make rash plans.

We sit for a little longer and talk a bit. I tell him I have to get home since I have school tomorrow. “Thanks for talking to me,” I say.

“We should talk some more sometime. That is, if you want to.” He smiles shyly.

“Definitely.” My stomach is buzzing. Or fluttering. Something weird.

Daniel walks me to the nearest bus stop, insisting on carrying my loaded backpack. We ride back to our sweltering abode, hardly talking, slightly smiling. He presses the up button for the elevator. The fourth floor looks less dingy, brighter even, when we reach the top. Maybe there’s more electricity running through the bulbs. Daniel walks with me a ways, and pauses when we usually go our separate ways.

“May I walk you to your place?” he asks.

I hesitate. “Sure.”

He walks close beside me. There are way less than five inches between us. Probably one or two. When we reach my studio, I tell him thanks.

“Of course.” He smiles. “See ya tomorrow at the elevator.”

“Yeah. See you at the elevator.” I smile back.