I was nearly asleep Sunday night, safely back in my bottom bunk in the foster house, when the bedroom door opened a little and the light from the hall spilled in.

“Muiriel?”

The boy stepped in, put the dollhouse in my hand, and left, closing the door behind him.

Thanksgiving morning Francine was up before dawn, which is not such an accomplishment in the Pacific Northwest, where the winter sun peeks over the horizon at the crack of 9:00 a.m., but she was up in the dark. Chickens fed, eggs collected, Terry Johnson walked and napping on the sofa, half-watching the Macy’s parade.

“There’s nothing left for me to do.” I yawned, scratching Terry’s ears until he growled.

“You wish,” Francine said. “We need to be at the Aoyamas’ by two o’clock; here’s three pounds of carrots and onions for you to chop.”

I ate my toast and tea, tied on an apron, and happily got to work.

“I’ve spent every Thanksgiving I can remember with the Aoyamas,” Francine said. “With Kira’s grandparents, and her mom, until she left for school and married, but they always brought Kira, then Ryo, every year from California. I watched that girl and her brother grow up. I’m so glad they’re all here now.”

“Was she a cute baby?”

“Kira? Oh Lord, yes, much cuter than her poor brother.”

“Francine.”

“He’s a great kid and I love him, but that doesn’t change the fact that he had an awkward phase that lasted from age two till, like, sixth grade. He’s fine now.”

“Nice.”

She shrugged. “Ask anyone. Ask his parents. But Kira—sweetest girl, wild hair, little-bird voice—she made us all place card holders for the table every year, turkeys out of pinecones and feathers and glitter. I have all of mine somewhere. She still want to study art in college?”

“She does.”

The kitchen was warm, and the Macy’s parade was a lot, but it was nice background noise against our chopping and whisking.

“You sure you don’t want to apply anywhere? School?” she said.

“Francine. Come on.”

“Come on what? Free tuition’s not nothing. If you want to go, there are ways; nothing is impossible. I mean, look at your grades, and all your volunteering. Muiriel, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and I think we should talk to Joellen about—”

At the front door someone knocked loudly, twice, and Terry Johnson barked. Once.

“Hold on,” Francine yelled above the suddenly loud parade, a Broadway show tune being performed by nearly naked guys wearing hot pants in subzero temperatures in New York. I kept chopping, and when she didn’t come back right away, I leaned back to look down the hall to see Francine standing in the doorway, talking to Sean.