Becky’s eyes soften. “I wish you could, truly I do, but those are the rules.”

Becky pushes a form across her desk. “Why don’t you start filling this out,” she says, tapping the paper with her fingernail, “while I get a few things you’ll need.” She smiles and nods. “Then we’ll get you all settled. You’ll feel better after that.”

“Oh,” she says, pulling out another form. “Fill this one out too. It’s for Hope House, a family shelter. We’ll get you on their waiting list right away, so you can all be together.”

Hope House. I like the sound of that.

Daddy bends low over the desk to fill out the forms. I swallow hard and stroke Dylan’s hair. A fluorescent light buzzes overhead. I can smell fried onions and Pine-Sol cleaner. Down a long hallway, a baby cries.

Becky returns with two plastic bags. She hands one to Mama and one to Daddy. “Towels, blankets, toiletries, things to help you settle in,” Becky explains.

Dylan whimpers a tear-laced, watery sniff.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Becky kneels down in front of Dylan and hands him a paper bag. She smiles. “Some things just for you.”

“Really?” Dylan opens the bag. Inside are coloring books, crayons, puzzle games on sheets of paper, and a paperback book.

“Look!” he says, holding out the bag like it’s trick-or-treat. “Just for me!”

Becky looks right into my eyes. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful big sister and will help him enjoy his treats.”

I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Mr. Trudeau,” Becky says in a gentle but firm voice, “you head on over to the men’s shelter. They’ll get you all settled into a nice room.”

Becky touches Mama’s arm. “Let me show you around.”

Dylan takes my hand. “I’ll share my crayons with you,” he says, smiling up at me.

I straighten the superhero cape on his shoulders. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll read that book to you, if you want.”

“Yay!” Dylan skips between me and Mama as we walk down a long hallway lined with doors, some open, some closed.

I remember Daddy. He’s standing there looking lost. I raise my free hand and wave.

“We’ll be back, Daddy!” I call.

As we walk down the hall, I try not to look inside the rooms that have open doors. I know it’s rude, but I can’t help it. My curiosity gets the best of me.

Inside one room, a woman sits on her cot writing in a notebook.

Next door, a lady holds a tiny baby close to her chest, rocking it back and forth.

Inside another room, a woman runs a comb through a girl’s long black hair while two little boys play with cars at her feet. The girl looks at me and smiles. I smile back and hurry after Mama.