The Morgans’ doorway is tucked under the eaves of the porch, and when we reach it, I grind to a halt because balloons. And streamers crisscrossing across the door like lasers in a spy movie. And… please, no. Is that confetti on the ground?

It’s definitely confetti. Of the rainbow variety.

My body slows down even more, and I’m barely moving forward. I catch sight of my reflection in the front window and feel a stab of dismay. As usual, I look all wrong. Too tall, too sullen, too something. My shoulder-length hair has been giving me a lot of problems lately, and it looks more tangled than usual. I rake it again, but only manage to make it worse. Maybe if I stand up straight? I attempt it but immediately hunch again.

I do my best to keep moving. Maybe the decorations aren’t for me? Maybe someone in this enormous household is celebrating a birthday? But then I look up into the window and see an extensively glittered sign that reads WELCOME, MASON, and that hope goes up in a puff of smoke. I know that foster families are advised to keep things low-key, make transitions as natural as possible. Did the Morgans not get that memo?

Then a terrible thought hits me. Are the Morgans one of those families who take in kids because they want to look good? If so, maybe the banner is more for the neighbors than it is for me and would be better off saying something like:

WELCOME TO OUR HOME, POOR, PITIFUL FOSTER CHILD!!

(NEIGHBORS: SEE WHAT GENEROUS PEOPLE WE ARE???)

Kate/Kaitlin should be at least as horrified by the decorations as I am, but instead she is shining like a supernova. Either that or she’s glittering with sweat. “Oh, wow! What a welcome! I told you the girls are excited to meet you, Mason.”

She reaches up to knock, and even before I can start to panic, the sticky door swings open to reveal Emma. She’s dressed a lot more casually than she was at our meeting, and she looks more tired, too, wearing flip-flops and an oversize T-shirt with a pair of denim shorts. She’s short and slim with smooth black bangs and brown skin, but at the meeting, she was wearing clothes that had covered her tattoos. A row of oranges and orange blossoms winds its way up her left arm, and a colorful sugar skull takes up most of her right thigh. There’s even a purple hummingbird peeking out of her left shoe.