Coach Bryant has started calling me "the slacker" in front of the other kids during PE class, and it stings every time. He says it like it's a joke, like he's teasing in a friendly way, but his eyes are hard when he looks at me, cold and judgmental, like I'm a personal disappointment to him, like I've failed him somehow.
I've taken fourteen cuts so far this semester, fourteen days of being marked absent from participation. Fourteen days of running laps around the football field in the awful Georgia heat while everyone else plays softball. My calves are always sore now, this deep muscle ache that never quite goes away no matter how much I stretch or rest. But the bruises on my thighs faded completely two weeks ago, finally healing enough to be invisible, and last Tuesday I finally dressed out for PE again for the first time in over a month.
Coach Bryant looked at me like he couldn't believe I'd actually shown up in proper gym clothes, like he thought I'd given up on his class entirely. He didn't say anything about the cuts or the laps or any of it, didn't ask where I'd been or why I'd suddenly returned. He just told me to get in line for stretches with the other kids, and that was that. No questions, no concern, no curiosity.
Jay was right about everything. Adults don't want to know the truth. It's easier for them to believe I'm lazy than to ask why a twelve-year-oldwould rather run punishment laps every single day than put on a pair of shorts in front of his classmates.
"Ivan," Jay says suddenly. I look up from the piece of straw I've been methodically shredding between my fingers, pulling it apart fiber by fiber. "I want to try something."
"Okay," I say immediately, because I trust him completely, because I always trust him without question, because in six months he's never given me a reason not to, never steered me wrong or let me down.
"What's my full name?" he asks, his tone serious.
I blink at him, confused by the question. "What?"
"My full name," he repeats patiently. "First, middle, last. What is it?"
"Jay..." I start, but he shakes his head, cutting me off before I can finish.
"Jason," he corrects me firmly. "Jason Michael Morrow. That's my legal name, the one on my birth certificate and all my official documents. Jay is just what I go by, what people call me. But if you ever needed to find me—like, officially find me, through records or databases or whatever—you'd need to know my legal name. The real one. So, say it back to me."
"Jason Michael Morrow," I repeat carefully, and the words feel strange and unfamiliar in my mouth because I've never thought of him as anything but Jay. But I can hear something serious and urgent underneath his casual tone, something that makes my chest feel tight with anxiety, like he's preparing me for something I don't want to think about.
"Good," he says, nodding his approval. "Now spell the last name."
"M-O-R-R-O-W," I spell out slowly.
"Right. What's my birthday?"
"I don't know," I admit, feeling suddenly ashamed that I don't know this basic fact about the most important person in my life.
"March fifteenth," Jay tells me. "Say it back."
"March fifteenth," I repeat obediently.
"And where was I born?" he asks next.
I shake my head because I don't know that either, and I'm starting to realize with growing unease how little I actually know about Jay beyondthe things that matter in the day-to-day reality of surviving this house together.
I know he likes his eggs scrambled, not fried, and that he'll eat them runny if that's all there is. I know he hums under his breath when he's nervous, this tuneless little sound he probably doesn't even realize he's making. I know he sleeps on his side with one arm tucked under his pillow, and that he wakes up instantly at any unexpected noise, eyes sharp and alert before he's even fully conscious, ready for danger. But I don't know where he was born or what his mother's name was or any of the official biographical facts that would be in a file somewhere in some social worker's office.
"Macon, Georgia," Jay says, filling in the blank for me. "Macon General Hospital. My mom's name was Rebecca Morrow. Maiden name Thorne. My dad isn't listed on the birth certificate, so I don't know anything about him. Not his name, not where he is, nothing. I don't have any siblings that I know of, though I guess it's possible I have half-siblings somewhere that I don't know about."
He's reciting all of this in a flat, matter-of-fact way, like he's reading from a list or a form, and I realize with a jolt that he's practiced this. He's probably gone over these details in his head a hundred times, keeping them sharp and memorized, keeping them ready for exactly this moment.
"Why are you telling me all this?" I ask, even though I think I already know the answer and I don't want to hear it confirmed out loud.
Jay is quiet for a moment, and the rain keeps hammering down relentlessly on the roof above us, loud enough that I can barely hear myself think over the drumming. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle in a way that scares me more than if he'd been harsh or angry.
"Because someday we might get separated," he says quietly. "I don't want that to happen. I'm going to do everything I can to make sure it doesn't happen. But I can't control everything, Ivan. I can't control Henderson, I can't control the social workers, I can't control what happens if someone finally notices something and makes a report. And if we get separated, if they send us to different places, the system isn't going to help us find each other. They don't care about keeping fosterkids connected. You'll go in your file and I'll go in mine and that'll be it. Unless we have a way to find each other on our own."
My throat is tight and I'm blinking hard because I will not cry, I will not cry, I've learned how not to cry and I'm not going to start now just because Jay is talking about losing each other like it's a real possibility, like it's something that could actually happen to us.
"I need you to memorize some things," Jay continues. "About me, so you can find me. And I need to memorize some things about you, so I can find you. That way, no matter what happens, no matter where they send us, we'll have a way back to each other. No matter how long it takes. Okay?"
"Okay," I whisper, because what else can I say? He's right. I know he's right. The system doesn't care about us. The adults don't care about us. The only people who care about us are us, and if we're going to survive this, if we're going to have any chance of staying connected, we have to do it ourselves.
"Let's start with you," Jay says, shifting to face me more directly. "What's your full legal name?"
