The physical exam is quick, but then I’m taken to other rooms for more testing. Blood work. X-rays. Brain scans. I’m not even sure what half of the tests are for. My suspicions grow with every minute that passes, but no one will tell me anything.

When the tests are finally over, a nurse dumps me in a freezing-cold conference room with chairs arranged in two rows and a long table covered with food and drinks. I lean against a wall and study the four people already inside, all about my age. Three of them bear the scars of a life in the system: a don’t-mess-with-me attitude combined with guarded eyes and clothes that have worn through or don’t quite fit.

But one guy stands out. Black hipster glasses, crisp blue jeans, and a plaid button-down shirt that fits perfectly—this is no foster kid. His dark hair is slightly tousled and he’s tall and lean, not exactly muscular yet not scrawny either. He gives the others a smile, his face friendly and without suspicion. I can tell he’s never gone hungry before, never flinched from an adult, never gotten in a car with no idea where he’d sleep next. The badge on his shirt reads Adam O’Neill.

He picks at the cheese and crackers and turns to the two guys standing there, who eye him like a piece of meat. “So, what are you guys in for?”

The biggest guy in the room gets right up in his face. “Is that some kind of joke?”

Adam adjusts his glasses, clearly surprised. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You think you’re funny?”

The third guy moves closer, like a shark drawn to the scent of blood. “Yeah, you think you’re better than us?”

“No, I don’t think that.” Adam holds up his hands and attempts another smile. He’s outnumbered, and the first guy has to be double his size, but he doesn’t back down. I respect him for that, even if he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. “Just trying to make conversation.”

“Yeah, I know your type,” the big guy says. He’s black, with a shaved head and large, muscular arms with a couple of tats. “I saw the way you were looking at us. You think you’re so fucking smart.”

He shoves Adam in the chest. Not hard but enough to make him stumble back a step. The look on Adam’s face is priceless, like he’s shocked anyone would ever pick a fight with him. He’s obviously unprepared to handle what’s coming next.

“You know what we do with smart guys like you?” the big guy asks, cracking his knuckles.

This is going to end badly. I do not want to get involved. It’s not my problem, and I haven’t been in a fight in months.

But damn, I hate bullies.

“Leave him alone.”