“Should we talk about it?” I tentatively ask.

Thomas finally meets my eyes. Politely, he says, “Yeah. Yes. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. The power dynamic—”

“It was just sex.” I take a bite of eggs, swallow without tasting them. “ODHS opens at eight.” Thomas pops a Prilosec out of its pack and hands it to me. “Still trying to make me well before popping me in the oven?” He doesn’t laugh. I wash it down with cool water that does nothing to quell the increasing heat in my gut.

Thomas pushes his chair back and stands. “I need to feed Chris, give her the meds.”

In the end he can only get her to nibble her new food and I have to help him with the pills, which requires that he hold a surprisingly strong Chris as she squirms and hisses while I pry open her mouth, push the pills down, try to avoid a bite. I’m not sure who is more upset by the process, Thomas or his cat. Moose doesn’t seem pleased, either. Well, grow up, everyone. This is reality.

“Shall we?” I ask, and grab my coat.

Thomas makes sure Chris is comfortable and we hang a do not disturb sign on the door so the maid doesn’t have a heart attack when she sees Moose. In the elevator only inches separate us but we’re miles apart. Outside it’s spitting rain and steel gray clouds press down on the city. By the time we reach ODHS, the thighs of my jeans and my hair are damp. Clementine is at the front desk, this time in an electric blue blouse and black pants.

“Ms. Young, back so soon?” Clementine asks.

Thomas says, “We’d like the names of families who fostered Sylvie from 2000 to 2002.”

Clementine adjusts one of her chunky gold hoops. Her entire ear is pierced, top to bottom, each hole filled with a colorful gem. “If that information wasn’t in Ms. Young’s file, I’m not sure where to find it.”

He pushes, “Could you ask the current caseworkers if they recall families who fostered back then? We’re happy to sort through the names, call them ourselves.”

Clementine takes a swallow of coffee, the rim of the mug stained with crescents of lipstick. “Yeesh. Twenty years ago. My guess? Those families have come and gone.”

“Some could’ve been young at the time and are still fostering,” I say.

“Sweetheart, being a foster parent isn’t easy. Most of ’em only last a few years.” She clicks her red nails together. “I knew your name rang a bell. Googled after you left. You’re a psychic with a show at the Schnitzer this Sunday, right?”

I nod.

Clementine’s grin reveals the slight gap between her front teeth. “Good for you! The Schnitzer is a big theater. Child, you exited the foster system fast. Got your forever family. Made something of your life. That’s what matters. Focus on the future.”

My chest is so tight, it’s hard to draw a full breath. “What if . . . what if I can’t until I know what happened to me?”