We’re huddled next to a flimsy desk light because the bulb overhead is out and no one’s bothered to change it yet. Not that there’s much to see—two twin beds crammed into a room not much bigger than a closet with one dresser between them. It’s obvious our foster mom once put some effort into decorating it with lavender walls and fluffy, pastel pillows, but a steady stream of rotating kids has worn the place down. At least with the light out it’s harder to see the stains in the carpet, the fraying edges of the sheets, or the peeling paint around the windowsill. Still, I’ve lived in worse places. And I only have to survive this one for another two months.

Katie though, she’s only fourteen. She has a long way to go before she gets out. I don’t know who will take care of her when I’m gone. Not the Robertsons, that’s for damn sure. They try, but they’re stretched thin enough as it is. Not the other girls living here, who pick on Katie for being tiny and having hair so pale it’s almost silver. Or they used to, anyway. I took her under my wing when she came here a month ago, after her mom OD’d on drugs. No one messed with her much after that.

Katie’s kind and smart, and the system hasn’t worn her down yet. I pray it never does, but who am I kidding? It gets to us all in time.

But once I get out, maybe I can help her. Or if not her, then other foster kids like us. Sometimes that thought is the only thing that keeps me going.

She starts reading again, and we work on conjugating the verb “to go” for her homework. I ignore the heavy feeling in my gut until my foster mom calls my name from downstairs.

Katie chews on her pen and looks up at me. “You should go see what she wants.”

“I know.” I sigh and drag myself off the bed. “Start working on the next section.”

It has to be a social worker. No one else would come to the house looking for me. But I only have two months until I turn eighteen. They wouldn’t make me move now, would they? I don’t want to leave Katie, and even though this house is cramped and rundown, the Robertsons treat us pretty well and always have food in the kitchen. That’s more than I can say for some of the homes I’ve lived in. But where I live has never been up to me. If they say I have to go, then that’s that.