He's got a beer in his hand even though it's only two in the afternoon, which tells me everything I need to know about this place, about what kind of people the Hendersons are. He looks at me the same way the woman did, like I'm less than furniture.
"The boy," he says. Not a question, just a statement.
"Yes," Mrs. Patterson responds, her bright voice faltering just a little. "Ivan Collins. Twelve years old. He's had some difficulty with—"
"Don't need his life story." The man takes a long drink of his beer, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "He can work?"
"He's twelve," Mrs. Patterson repeats, and there's something in her voice now that might be disapproval, though she's too professional to let it show completely.
"Old enough." The man looks at me with flat, assessing eyes, like he's measuring me for labor, calculating what he can get out of me. "You ain't lazy, are you, boy?"
"No, sir," I say quickly, because that's the only safe answer.
"Better not be." He looks back at the TV, dismissing me entirely, like I've already ceased to exist now that he's gotten the information he wanted. "The other boy is in the back. He can show him the room."
Mrs. Patterson does some paperwork with Mrs. Henderson at the kitchen table while I stand by the door holding my garbage bag, trying to make myself as small as possible, trying not to exist too much, trying not to take up space or breathe too loud or do anything that might draw attention.
The kitchen is dirty. There are dishes piled in the sink with food crusted on them, and something sticky on the floor near the trash can that my shoe almost touches. I'll probably have to clean all of this eventually. That's okay. I know how to clean. I'm good at cleaning.
When the paperwork is done, Mrs. Patterson crouches down to look at me, her knees cracking audibly in the quiet. She does the smile that's supposed to be reassuring but isn't, the smile that never reaches her eyes or changes the worried line between her eyebrows.
"You're going to be fine here, Ivan. Give it a chance, okay? I'll check in soon."
She won't check in soon. They never do. The social workers always say they'll check in, they'll visit, they'll make sure everything's going well, and then weeks go by and you never see them again until something goes wrong or it's time to move you somewhere else.
"Okay," I say anyway, because it's easier than arguing.
And then she's gone, walking back to her car with the chemical pine tree, and I'm alone with the Hendersons.
Mrs. Henderson is pointing toward a hallway off the kitchen, one finger jabbing in that direction. "Last door on the left. That's where you and Jay sleep. Don't make a mess. Don't be loud. Dinner's at six. You miss it, you don't eat. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I walk down the hallway slowly, my feet making the floorboards creak with every step. There's a bathroom with the door standing open with the toilet seat up, brown stains in the bowl that I don't want to think about. Another door that's closed, probably the Hendersons' bedroom. And then the last door on the left, which is open just a crack, just enough to show a sliver of the room beyond.
I push it open carefully, not sure what I'm going to find on the other side.
The room is small, barely big enough for what it contains. Two beds, one pushed against each wall, with a narrow space between them. A dresser with three drawers that looks like it's seen better decades. A window with no curtains, just bare glass with dust in the corners. The walls are yellow, but not a nice yellow, not the color of sunshine ordaffodils or any of the good yellow things. It's a sick yellow, a nicotine yellow, the color of smoke stains and age.
There's a boy sitting on the bed by the window.
He looks up when I come in, and my whole body goes tight with sudden fear, every muscle tensing, ready to run or fight or freeze.
He's bigger than me, a lot bigger, probably five or six inches taller, with the kind of build that comes from real work, from using your body hard. Dark hair that needs to be cut, falling past his ears in messy chunks. Dark eyes that look almost black in the dim light filtering through the dirty window.
He's wearing jeans with dirt ground into the knees and a T-shirt with a hole near the collar, frayed edges showing white threads. His hands are curled into fists on his thighs, knuckles white with tension.
He looks like the kind of boy who hurts people, who knows how to hurt people and does it without thinking twice.
I stop just inside the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. I don't move closer. I don't say anything. I just stand there holding my garbage bag against my chest like armor, trying to figure out where the hits will come from, how to block them, whether I should run now before it starts or wait and see if maybe this time will be different.
"Close the door," he says.
My hand is shaking a little as I reach back and push the door shut. I hope he doesn't notice the trembling, hope he doesn't see how scared I am because fear is like blood in the water. It makes the predators more aggressive.
He stands up slowly, unfolding from the bed, and he's even taller than I thought, towering over me by what looks like half a foot at least. He could really hurt me if he wanted to. He could do whatever he wanted and I couldn't stop him, couldn't defend myself, couldn't do anything but take it.
I take a step back instinctively, pressing myself against the door, my spine flat against the wood, nowhere left to go.
