By early evening, Vanya snoozes, his head cushioned by such softness he can’t force his eyes open. He snuggles a little deeper, sure this can’t be the narrow, sagging single bed only a foot or two from Kaspar’s in the cramped room they share. No, this pillow belongs on a bed whose comfort he’d almost forgotten. He rubs his cheek against its cover, greedily inhaling its clean scent.

It smells of detergent instead of mildew, the whole room warm and cozy.

He must be at home.

Only the persistent rumble of passing traffic makes him reconsider. It’s much louder outside than the suburb they moved to once his father’s business took off. A small smile curls a corner of his mouth as he remembers the day they moved in. His father’s chest had been about as puffed up with pride as this pillow feels under his head. No more shared hallways for them, he promised, where the smells of cooking always lingered. No more communal laundry shared with a dozen families. Peace and quiet signalled his status as a respected business leader. This intrusive traffic noise, on the other hand, belongs to a city.

But the scent of warm, clean linens is comforting and familiar.

If this is a dream, he wants to prolong it.

Maybe if he opens his eyes, he’ll see Mama ironing. He’ll get up in a moment to help, and if he uses folding the sheets as an excuse to pull her into a tight hug, that’s no one else’s business.

The illusion pops like a soap bubble when a harsh voice wakes him.

“You can’t sleep here.”

His eyes shoot wide open.

A London launderette comes into sideways focus. The flint-faced woman, who takes in service washes, stands with her arms folded. She glances at the towels he’s drooled on, looking none too happy. “You need to wake up.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. I rested my eyes for a moment, that’s all. I’ll get out of your hair right now.”

Her incomprehension suggests he’s spoken Russian. He almost tries to explain again in English, but she’s turned away already. Behind her, the machine holding his laundry stands empty, its door wide open. Vanya scrambles to his feet and spits out a curse. Most of his clothes were in there. If someone’s stolen them while he snoozed…. Panic catapults him from half-asleep to wide-awake in one heart-crushing moment, only forestalled by the woman’s return. She places a full laundry basket on the folding surface before speaking slowly and loudly, like so many Brits he’s encountered.

“These. Will. Crease. If. They. Sit. Any. Longer.”

He recognises the greying T-shirt she holds up.

Relief leaves him dizzy.

Thank fuck.

Less than a year ago, he thought the word disaster defined floods and quakes and landslides. Now the thought of replacing simple things like underwear has cold sweat prickling his skin. Something so insignificant shouldn’t affect him in a way that’s physical.

He’s so tired of this feeling.

He rubs a hand through his hair from his forehead, where it’s longest, to the shaved prickle at the nape of his neck, and tells himself to get a grip already.

Things could be worse.

He isn’t alone, far from home, with no clue how to replace these items these days. Nope. If all his clothes are stolen, he has other options. After all, recycling bins overflow in every supermarket car park. Rummaging through them might be a poor relation to his old shopping habits, but it’s a whole lot better than wasting the money Kaspar squirrels away to secure their future.

The woman returns to tap the face of her watch. “You need to go.” She taps it once more. Her head tilt towards the door doesn’t require translation.

“Yes.” He nods and mirrors her exaggerated motions. “Yes. I’m fold. Right now.”

He does while his heart rate slows from a gallop, putting into practice the swift motions he learned from Kaspar. He folds this load as fast as he can, then gathers up the towels he’d napped on and heads back to the hostel, toting bags that bump his knees as he walks. They lighten as he makes stops along the way, handing over a pile of dishtowels to the Turk at the corner cafe, accepting some supper for his trouble. He deposits a larger stack at the barbers on the promise of a future shave and haircut. His load soon lightens by half, but as he approaches the hostel, it feels twice as heavy.

What will he walk into this time?

His mail open and then discarded, littering the communal hallway?

Or more broken dishes of his in the kitchen, which no one ever leaves clean?

And to think he’d been impressed at the name of the building. Queen Victoria House sounds much more regal than the reality, where multiple occupancy means multiple problems, especially in a building like this, so meanly converted that neighbours have no secrets.

He drags his feet and attempts another internal pep talk.

Things could be so much worse.

So much.

If he has to be miserable about actually having a roof over his head and something good to eat for once, he might as well use the feeling to extend his antonym vocab. Grateful and thankful are a couple he tries hard to mean, but it’s only seeing his roommate approach from the other direction that truly lifts his spirits.

Kaspar calls out in English. “What are you looking so happy about?”

“I’m happy my face isn’t stupid like yours.” There. A complete sentence including pronouns is more than enough for the day. He reverts to Russian. “What about you? That grin can’t be for me. Why are you so happy?”

Kaspar takes the last laundry bag from Vanya, leaving him to carry his document folder and their supper. He jogs up the steps to their front door. “Hurry up and I’ll tell you.”

Vanya can’t quite match the spring in his step, not when he’s about to enter a place no amount of joking can make better. He delays by asking, “You hoping to see Anna?”

“No. Well, yes. She finished work before me or I would have walked back with her. I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Kaspar phrases his next sentence like a question. “I could ask her out?”

“You should. I told you. She likes you too. Besides, I saw what she did for you yesterday, sewing on a button while you still had your shirt on. Could she have gotten any closer?” It’s cute to see his one friend in London’s face flame with rosy colour. “Of course, she hasn’t heard you snore yet.”

“Funny guy.”

Vanya hesitates before saying what’s been on his mind lately. “Listen—”

“No.” Kaspar drops the bag and takes the steps down to the street again. “Don’t even start.”

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

Kaspar’s hand is firm at the nape of his neck. “You don’t have to say a word. I know where you’re headed. Your face gives you away every time you think you’re holding me back.”

“Your savings would build up much quicker if you didn’t help me out so often,” Vanya can’t help saying. “You might have a deposit for a place of your own by now if you didn’t buy me food whenever I run out or top up my Oyster card to get to the immigration centre.”

“Hush. If I didn’t help you out, who would do my laundry?”

Vanya can’t help the way his eyes steal to a window on the third floor. Kaspar’s crush is only four doors down the hallway from them, but that quick glance doesn’t escape his roommate either.

“I don’t want her washing my underpants. Not when I haven’t got into hers yet.” He gives Vanya a shake before sliding his arm heavily over his shoulder. It’s a weight that grounds him, as comforting as the scent of laundry detergent earlier. “We’ve been over this a hundred times already. If we don’t stick together, life will only be harder. Isn’t that why we started sharing a room? You being here so often while I’m out at work keeps our stuff much safer. How many times do you think you being there has stopped break-ins?”

Vanya shrugs. Theft was a perpetual problem until they started sharing.

“So I get as much out of the deal as you do. Besides, the only difference between us is that Estonians like Anna and I can work in Britain while Russians need a visa.” He glares at an election poster someone pinned to the front door of the building. A political candidate smiles out from it benignly, like his party wouldn’t shut the hostel quick as a blink if elected. “I’m legal here for now, at least. You’ll pay me back when you’re granted asylum and can get a job of your own.”

What Kaspar describes as a tactical arrangement sure feels like real friendship. Vanya nods, not trusting his voice, when Kaspar continues.

“As soon as I have three payslips, I can open a bank account here. That means I can sign a rental agreement in maybe a month. A new place is as good as ours already.” Kaspar jogs up the steps again, rips the election poster from the front door, and crumples it into a ball that he dropkicks to Vanya. His smile is wide and wicked when Vanya heads the poster into a dustbin. “Smooth move, Ivanushka. Now hurry up so I can tell you what happened at work after you left.”

Vanya slowly climbs the front steps. “This better be good,” he says while Kaspar fishes out a key it turns out he doesn’t need—the door swings open, clearly left unlocked, despite the house rules meant to keep out trouble.

“That guy came back,” Kaspar says. “The one with the black eye, remember?”

Remember? Vanya’s done little else but think about their conversation. “What did he want?”

“What do you think?”

Vanya’s grateful the light bulb in the hallway is blown so he can’t see Kaspar’s leer any clearer. “I don’t know. One of the neckties I showed him?” The next staircase is equally dim, which at least masks Go Home graffiti. It also hides his smile of pleasure. “Maybe he appreciates good taste.”

The sounds of someone getting a thorough fucking fills the next hallway. Kaspar waggles his eyebrows. “Well he appreciated something, all right. He really wanted to see you and was sorry he couldn’t.”

“And that’s what you found so funny?”

“Nope.” Kaspar takes another flight of stairs up. “What’s funny is that he thought you were a personal shopper. He wanted to hire you.”

Vanya stops mid-step. “He what?”

“He wanted you to dress him. I’m not sure he believed me when I said you couldn’t do that. He made me take his number and asked that I get you to call him. Said he’d make it worth your while if you saw him tomorrow.”

It’s tempting for so many reasons.

Finally having some money of his own is appealing. So is spending time with someone prepared to listen. But….

Kaspar must hear his sigh. Once he gets to their floor, he waits for Vanya to catch up. “I know you can’t legally work until your asylum case is decided. I’m only telling you to cheer you up. He even turned down the store’s personal shopper service. Only you would do for him.” He scans Vanya’s face closely. “He must have seen something he really liked. Maybe you should call him anyway. If older, dirty bricklayers really do it for you, you should let him take you out, see what comes up….”

“I will pay you to shut up.”

“With what?” Kaspar jokes, but it’s the real truth of his situation. “Sorry,” he quickly adds. “I didn’t mean—”

“I’d take the job if it was for real,” Vanya blurts. “I’d take it in a heartbeat. I miss shopping, and I do need cash, we both do, only maybe not so much that I’d risk getting deported.”

His words fade when they find Kaspar’s crush waiting outside their room.

Anna stands straight like she’s on guard before staggering towards Kaspar, apologising for something.

Vanya hardly hears what she says.

Behind her, their bedroom door hangs from its hinges.

“They got my room too,” she says.

He barely pays attention. Time slows as he pushes past to find their lives upturned like his bed, broken glass littering the floorboards. Time speeds up again when he sharply inhales.

Thank God he had his document folder with him all day.

Losing the evidence it contains could be a death sentence.

He sifts through what the burglars have left. Picture frames lay smashed and broken, luckily Kaspar’s family photos still intact behind glass that’s cobwebbed. Vanya turns to mention this small mercy, but Kaspar kneels for a different reason, oblivious to glass slivers, his own document wallet open.

“My papers.” He’s breathless, like he’s taken a punch to his gut. “My passport.” He digs even further. “Oh, no.” Vanya’s not sure there’s an English word to describe how he feels when Kaspar says, “They took my savings.”

Helplessness vies with Vanya’s anger at yet another setback, and Anna’s worry each time someone walks down the hallway behind her helps solidify it. A particularly violent flinch prompts Kaspar to ask her a question. “Wait… were you in your room when it was robbed.”

Her silence is an answer.

Kaspar’s on his feet in a second, fists clenched. “Did… did they—?”

Her headshake is fast. “They didn’t stick around once I started shouting. Besides, my room’s been broken into before. I don’t have anything left worth stealing.” Her voice drops. “Not like you.”

Kaspar sounds sick. “We were so close. So, so close to getting out of here.” His gaze falls to his half-empty folder of papers. “Now we’re so much farther away.”

Anna’s touch to his shoulder turns into a hug that Vanya looks away from. It’s so reminiscent of his sister that he can almost hear her, can almost feel her small hand in his despite close to a year passing since he last saw her. Regret that he won’t get to be there for her in the future stabs as sharp as the shards littering these bare floorboards. And just like he can’t be there anymore for his sister, there’s nothing he can do to improve this situation either.

There’s nothing he has to offer to get them out of this hole any faster.

Vanya’s stare is as bleak as his outlook as he turns in a slow circle.

His gaze snags on something.

A necktie tangles around a snarl of bed sheets, pulling free when he tugs it. He wraps it around his fingers before voicing the one thing that might improve this situation.

“Did you really take that customer’s phone number?”

Kaspar frowns over Anna’s shoulder, but when Vanya says, “Maybe he was serious about paying,” he hands his phone over.