When I feed Rainbow, I stay with him longer and longer, petting and brushing him and giving him extra carrots. My dad hasn’t brought up the subject of where he might go, and I’m too scared to ask. I feel so guilty about it, I can hardly stand it.

I think George knows something sad is happening. He comes into my room and jumps in the boxes and meows, as if he wants me to stop packing everything away.

Finally, over the weekend, my dad gets off the phone and doesn’t look defeated. “I think we’ve found a place,” he says.

We all sit down at the dining-room table, which is covered with packing tape and markers and unopened mail.

My mom looks at him hopefully, but all I feel is dread. Somehow I hoped maybe there would still be a way to stay here.

“The apartments out by Route Twelve,” he says.

My mom looks down at the messy table and squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them and forces herself to smile.

“Where’s that?” Ivy asks.

“Near the highway,” my dad says. “Way on the other side of town, where the school and library are.”

Ivy thinks for a minute, and I can see her trying to picture the apartment building. It’s tall and ugly and right next to the highway. It’s surrounded by parking lots and the fast-food restaurants people stop at when they get off at the exit. It’s the one I remember visiting for that birthday party when I was a kid. The one for people who can’t afford to live anywhere else. I know this because we did a unit in social studies on homelessness and transitional housing and we learned all about the economics of our town and what kind of help there is for people when they lose their jobs and can’t afford rent. We had a big discussion about how hard it is for people to get back on their feet when rents are so high and it’s next to impossible to save money.

I can tell when Ivy realizes where the place is because her face sinks, and unlike my mom, she can’t control herself when it comes to showing emotion. But she doesn’t cry and she doesn’t do anything babyish, like yell, “No! I won’t go!” And that makes me sadder, really. Because it means she’s lost hope.

“They have a two-bedroom available,” my dad says. “We can go look this afternoon.”

My mom nods, then gets up and walks over to an empty box and carries it into the living room.

My dad reaches across the table and touches my and Ivy’s arms. “It’s gonna be OK,” he says. “It’s temporary.”

“What about Rainbow?” Ivy asks. “And George?”

“They allow cats but not ponies.”

My heart sinks down into some dark part of me.