Chapter 1

The group home always smelled like old bleach and unspoken sadness.

I was nine.

Most days, I tried to be a ghost, sliding along the chipped linoleum floors, invisible.

It was safer that way.

My only real thing was a photograph, corners soft from how much I held it.

My mom.

She smiled in the picture, tired but smiling. She worked three jobs before she got sick.

The community center downtown was my only escape.

It was noisy and a bit wrecked, but it felt more alive than the group home.

Ethan worked there. He was the program director.

Once, I lost a little tin soldier my mom gave me. I was real upset.

Ethan found it tucked under a loose floorboard. He didn't make a big deal, just handed it back with a kind smile.

I never forgot that.

That' s why I kept going back.

One afternoon, a new woman was there.

She was behind the front desk, typing fast, not looking up.

She had dark hair pulled back tight and a way of moving that was quick, like a cat.

I sat on the worn-out couch, pretending to read a comic book.

But I watched her.

Her eyes kept flicking towards Ethan' s office.

Ethan was talking to some kids, laughing. He had an easy laugh.

The new woman' s face didn' t change, but her gaze lingered on him.

It was a look I didn't understand then, but it felt heavy, like a secret.

She looked away when Ethan glanced towards the desk.

She saw me watching her. Her eyes were sharp, like bits of dark glass.

I looked down at my comic book fast.

My stomach rumbled. Lunch at the home was watery soup and stale bread.

Later, Ethan was showing a kid how to fix a flat bike tire.

The new woman stood up, stretched.

She walked past him, and for a second, her shoulder almost brushed his arm.

She stopped, just for a breath, then kept going.

Ethan didn't seem to notice. He was focused on the bike chain.

The woman went to the small staff kitchen.

I wondered who she was.

She didn't smile. Not once.

She seemed like she didn't want to be there, but also like she couldn't leave.

It was a strange combination.

Like she was waiting for something.

Or someone.