So Emma clearly thinks of me as a runaway, which honestly isn’t accurate, because it had more to do with the circumstances than it did with me. My first foster home was okay, but the couple unexpectedly had to move out of state to care for an ill family relative. My second foster home was great at giving me space. So good at it, in fact, that my case worker decided it was no longer a good fit. Fortunately or unfortunately, by the time I was moved out of that home I’d gotten used to being completely independent, a trait that my new foster family interpreted as defiance. They kept giving me harsher and harsher rules until it really was defiance, and the only way to get any breathing room was to escape. I kept finding other places to be—with friends, wandering the streets, and one night, after a bad fight with my foster father, I went and stayed in a youth shelter. Eventually the placement broke down and I ended up in a group home, which is when I first heard about the Morgans, who apparently worked hard to get licensed for foster care. But if that’s the case, then why aren’t we talking much at all? Yesterday I wrote deodorant on Emma’s grocery list, and that was only because I was in desperate need. Emma had written What kind? next to it, and I’d written Any kind, because I don’t actually know what kind I like; I’ve always used whatever was available. I wished I could write T-shirts, because mine are all way overdue for a refresh, and pack of blue pens, because blue is my preferred star log color, but deodorant was all I could muster.

I’ve been in worse foster homes, but never any this awkward. What am I even doing here?

I roll out of bed, wincing slightly. Like everything in my room, the mattress is brand new, and it’s a little bit stiff and plasticky-smelling. Everything else in the room appears to be new too. Along with my bed, there’s a white five-drawer dresser, a nightstand, and a dark blue rug that is so new, it hasn’t quite unrolled at the edges yet. Honestly, it’s disorienting. I’ve never really had anything all that new, plus, I keep running into remnants of the room’s previous residents, like the Minnie Mouse Band-Aid I found stuck to the inside of the closet door or the sprinkling of glitter on the windowsill.

I take my time pulling on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts as I think over my objective for the day. So far, I’ve got: Avoid Emma and her tattoo. Read astrophysics books. Try not to freak out.

Full day here.