We hit Salem proper, and the more I see, the more nervous I get. Salem is technically a suburb of Boston, but it somehow feels completely different. Yes, it’s New England, with cobblestone and a Dunkin’ Donuts lurking on every other street corner, and I’m sure there are people arguing passionately about who makes the best roast beef sandwiches like there are everywhere in the Boston area. But Salem has its own unique vibe. It obviously takes its history very, very seriously, because it’s summer and there are signs of witches everywhere—witch shops, witch signs, witches on the police cars; even the high school’s mascot is a witch. If it’s like this now, what will Halloween be like?

Kate/Kaitlin is having a hard time navigating, and as the car slows, my head begins to detach the way it does whenever I’m nervous. Before long, it’s like I’m watching myself in this little car, shallow breath, sweating more than is strictly necessary. Why am I this nervous? I’ve done this so many times before, you’d think I’d be used to it. My mom and I moved constantly, but I was with her, and even during the really hard times she managed to make it magical—and no matter where we were, we found a rooftop to climb out on so we could study constellations.

In foster homes I’m expected to fit into an already established environment, and every home is completely different. At least with my mom I knew what to expect.

Kate/Kaitlin must notice I’m deep in thought, because she rallies again. “Isn’t it incredible that Emma is someone you already know? It really is so rare to find a placement like this. And how incredible is it that they became foster parents specifically for you?”

Calling my new foster mom “someone I already know” is a stretch. Before the placement meeting I did know Emma’s name, but only because my mom talked about her off and on like someone I should know for most of my childhood. They grew up together in South Boston and, according to my mom, they had once been very close. My mom had probably imploded their relationship by showing up high or asking for money, because that’s the way all of my mom’s relationships end, which makes me wonder—why was Emma so adamant about connecting with me now?

“Mmm,” I manage. No one would mistake my voice for enthusiasm, but at least I don’t sound like I am being roasted on a spit, which is what it feels like, flames of anxiety licking at my stomach and rib cage. And then the car is slowing, pulling up to a curb, and it’s all I can do to look up, acknowledge that we’re here.