“Sean! When you turn eighteen, is your mom kicking you out alone with nothing and telling you to never come back or ever speak to her again?”

He looked right at me. “No.”

“Well, my parent is the state of Washington. And when I’m eighteen, Washington is kicking me out.”

“What about Francine?”

“What about her? She is paid to let me live with her. When they stop paying her, I have to leave. That’s how foster care works.”

“What if she adopted you?”

I walked. He followed.

“Muir. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…is adoption bad?” he said, trying to keep up with my anxiety-fueled pace.

“No, adoption isn’t bad. It isn’t anything. It isn’t true.”

“What?”

His confusion made my heart hurt. Also made me furious. How could he not understand that I did not choose this life? I was forced to be alone; I couldn’t have best friends or a boyfriend or any normal shit other kids get to do in high school because I did not want to die, and love was a land mine of attachment.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish you would let me help.”

“I wish you could.”

“I can.”

We walked and walked until Francine’s road, and I could not help it, I hugged him and he held on tight. I wanted so badly to kiss him, but why salt the wound?

“I’ll see you at school on Monday,” he said. “Because I go there, too, and I…am your friend.” He turned and walked across the road and into the trees, on the path to his house. His mom’s house. Where he would always be welcome. Always home.

He can’t help me. I can’t help Zola. Land mines everywhere.

Terry Johnson came tip-tapping to me, and I scooped him up. All through dinner Francine watched me being gloomy but didn’t say anything until I turned down the oatmeal cookies she offered for dessert.

“Dessert is the most important food group,” she reminded me.

“I know.” I tried to smile.

“I talked to Sean’s mom,” she said.

“I heard.”

“You can both read a clock. No more penis emojis.”

“Francine.”

“Muiriel. He’s a nice boy.”

“I know.” I cleared the table, Francine rinsed the dishes, and I loaded the dishwasher. I wrapped the cookies in foil and excused myself for bed.

“You want to take Terry Johnson up with you now?” she asked. “He’s going to end up there later anyway.”

Terry Johnson’s ears lifted at the sound of his name.

“You sure?” I asked. “Doesn’t he want to watch The Bachelor?”

“He probably does. But you look like you could use some extra warmth tonight.”

I picked him up, started to the stairs, and stopped to bury my face in his soft neck. “Or we could watch with you,” I said. “So he doesn’t fall behind and get confused.”