Noah was placed in my last foster home before me. He took me under his wing. Taught me the unspoken rules. Snuck food from the kitchen when I was punished and made to go without dinner. He’s my best friend in the world, and I hate disappointing him.

Met the uncle, I swipe into my phone. Seems kinda strict.

We know all about strict. The foster home we shared was built on ever-shifting rules that we would inevitably fail. It was cold and uncomfortable and filled with fleas—but it was a roof over our heads and questionable food on a plate each evening.

He texts back right away. Miss you already.

Guilt sits heavy in my stomach. He didn’t want me to sign this contract, but I couldn’t keep working shifts at the diner and the grocery store forever. I barely earned enough to cover my share of the rent, much less what it would take to go to college.

Only three percent of kids who age out of the foster care system ever get a college degree. I’m going to be in that three percent even if it kills me.

I’m going to trade in this one year for a new future.

This job will change my life.

Assuming I keep it. That seems uncertain based on the way Beau Rochester spoke last night.

Leaving the kitten in bed, I shower quickly and step out of the room with my hair still wet. I don’t have to count the doors to know which one belongs to the child. Paige. That’s her name. Paige Rochester. The door is open, and there’s an argument in progress.

“It’s twenty degrees outside,” says a low voice I recognize as Beau. “You can’t walk around in a T-shirt from Reading Rainbow and a goddamn tutu.”

A small but furious voice. “It’s Reading Railroad, and it costs two hundred dollars.”

“I don’t care what it costs. If it’s not long sleeves and pants and socks and a sweater, it’s not going to fucking—I mean, it’s not going to fly.”

When I reach the doorway, I’m confronted with the view of a man, six foot something, built with lean muscles and a hard expression, facing off with a mutinous little girl wearing a red shirt with a black railway engine on it and a black tutu.

Both man and little girl look extremely stubborn and severe about the issue. It would be almost comical, how alike they look despite their differences, if I didn’t worry I was about to be caught in the middle of this dispute.

“Good morning,” I say brightly.

Mr. Rochester glances back at me. “Thank God you’re here. Surely dressing a child in the morning is part of your job description.”