Melissa clicks her pen. “Well, Lou, that depends on her and on you. She’s got to prove herself able to support the two of you—get a steady job and a permanent living situation. If she can do that, she’ll petition the court to be granted full custody again. But,” she says in a way that makes me think whatever’s coming next is really what she came here to say, “the judge will also ask you what you want before a final decision is made. So, you need to think on that. Would you want to stay here with your aunt and uncle, assuming they are willing to take on physical and financial responsibility? Or do you want to move back in with your mom?”

How can she ask me that? I’ve only been here a week. I sneak a look at Ginger. She’s picking at the seam in her skirt just like I do. I have no idea what she’s thinking. I have no idea what I’m thinking, other than that I want answers.

“But this was not your question,” Melissa continues. “Your question was when can you see her, and that, really, is up to Maria and child services in California. Once they file the report on their end, we can arrange a meeting. And I promise to let you know as soon as I do when that is. Okay?”

I think I nod. I don’t hear anything she says after that. It all sounds impossibly formal and complicated. Everything is so complicated. She hands Dan and Ginger a pamphlet titled, “Resources for Kinship Caregivers” on her way out.

We eat an early dinner. No one talks much. I catch Ginger eyeing the pamphlet on the kitchen counter. They invite me to watch a movie with them, one of the Star Wars, but I claim homework. “On a Friday night?” Dan says, but they let me go. It’s been a long week for all of us.

Once I’m in my room, I turn off all the lights and curl up on the reading chair. The moonlight draws stripy patterns across my feet. I pull up Spotify on my phone. Already the iPod is “old school,” as Well put it. I scroll through his “Suzy Lee playlist,” because he decided I needed a soundtrack. I hit play on Lenka’s “Everything’s Okay.” It’s a beautiful song. Piano and claps and hope. I sing to myself and reach a hand down to Mom’s guitar, but I don’t pick it up.