Apparently not. We spend the drive in silence. I text a few people back home, including Noah. He sent me a meme of a lion who steals a wilderness photographer’s camera. It’s a joke. A reminder of one time when I took his hoodie from the laundry by mistake and then refused to give it back because it was so much warmer than mine. One time, I text back.

I don’t have a specific plan for my day off. The agency deposited some money. Most of it gets held back. We’re still a few months away from that payment, but there’ve been regular deposits every week that I haven’t been spending. I haven’t needed it for rent or food.

The Uber lets me out in front of shops. It’s a strange feeling to know I could walk inside and buy something for myself, something fun and unnecessary, and still have enough to eat. Still have a roof over my head. Of course I really need to save it for when I start college.

One in five kids who age out of foster care end up homeless. That could be me. That could be Noah or any of the other kids I grew up with. It will be one of them, which is why it’s so important I go to college. Not only because I’ll be able to help other kids in the system, but so that I can have security in my life. Safety. This is what survival looks like.

My phone rings, and I glance at the screen. Noah’s grinning face looks up at me. My stomach does a little twist. I care about him like a brother. It hurts that we have this rift, but I don’t know how to fix it beyond memes and one-line texts.

“Hey,” I say, strolling down the sidewalk. There’s an antique shop with these ceramic lions that look Chinese and a heavy screen that has Egyptian stuff drawn on it. I wonder how old something has to be before it’s called antique.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

My heart squeezes. I pull back to check the time. “Aren’t you at work?”

“I’m on break.”

That means he’s got fifteen minutes. Maybe less depending on if he needs a drink of water or to use the bathroom. The grocery store manager is strict about that. “I’ve missed you, too.”

There’s a whisper of air over the phone.

My eyes narrow. “Are you smoking?”

A short puff of laughter. “Jane.”

“I thought we agreed no more smoking.”

“That was before you moved to another state.”