"I know. I've had older foster brothers too. I know exactly what they're like. But I'm not like them, Ivan. I promise you that. I'm not like them at all. You'll see."
I want to believe him. I want to believe him so bad it physically hurts, an ache right in the center of my chest.
"Come on," he says, scooting over on his bed and patting the space next to him. "You can sit if you want. You don't have to stand by the door all night like you're ready to run."
I hesitate, frozen between the urge to trust him and the survival instincts screaming at me not to. Every part of me that's learned how to survive in this system is screaming not to trust him, not to get close, not to let my guard down because that's when you get hurt bad.
But he smiled at me.
I cross the narrow space between the door and his bed, my legs feeling shaky. I sit on the edge of his bed carefully, still holding my garbage bag, still not quite ready to let it go.
"You can put that down," he says gently. "I'm not gonna take your stuff. I already told you that. What's in there anyway?"
"Clothes mostly. And a book."
Jay looks at me for a long moment, something flickering in his dark eyes, something that looks like recognition or understanding or maybe sadness.
We sit there for a while, not talking, just existing in the same space. I can hear the TV in the other room, the clink of glass that's probably another beer being opened.
"Dinner's at six," Jay says finally, breaking the silence. "We should probably go out there before they get mad. They don't like it when we're late."
"Okay."
He stands up and holds out his hand to help me up. I take it hesitantly, and his hand is warm and rough and so much bigger than mine, swallowing my smaller hand completely.
"Hey, Ivan?" he says as I get to my feet.
"Yeah?"
"It's gonna be okay. I know it doesn't feel like it right now. I know this place is scary and the Hendersons are terrible and everything is awful. But I've got your back now. That means something. That means you're not alone anymore."
I look up at him. This boy with the dark eyes and the scary face he wears like armor and the gentle voice and the kind hands. This boy who promised not to hurt me, who promised to help me, who looked at me like I mattered.
Maybe he's lying. Maybe this is all some elaborate trick and tomorrow he'll be just like every other older boy I've known. Cruel and selfish and mean. Maybe I'm being stupid to trust him.
But right now, in this moment, standing in this sad yellow room with his warm hand still wrapped around mine, I choose to believe him.
"Thanks, Jay."
He smiles again, that real smile that makes everything feel a little less terrible.
And for the first time in as long as I can remember, longer than I can even count, I don't feel completely alone in the world.
Chapter 2: Jay
The kid's hand is small in mine, all fragile bones and paper-thin skin like a bird's wing. I let go before we leave the room because he can't be seen needing help out there, not in this house. The Hendersons smell weakness the way dogs smell fear. They can sense it in the way you hold yourself, and they'll go for your throat the second they catch the scent of it.
"Stay close," I whisper. "Don't talk unless they ask you something directly. Eat fast. As fast as you can without choking. Don't look him in the eye too long, especially not when he's been drinking. That just makes it worse."
Ivan nods, his head bobbing up and down in quick, jerky movements. He's pale, so pale his skin looks almost translucent in the dim hallway light, like you could see right through him if you looked hard enough.
Scared, obviously scared, but he's listening to every word I say, his blue eyes fixed on my face like I'm the only solid thing in his world right now. And that's good—that's really good. The ones who don't listen are the ones who get hurt worst, the ones who think they know better or that the rules don't apply to them until it's too late.
We walk down the hall together and I'm already doing math in my head, calculating odds and time and probabilities. He's twelve years old. Small for twelve, probably a good three or four inches shorter than he should be for his age. He looks like he hasn't been eating enough for a while, maybe months, maybe longer. The family before this probably skimped on food. Some of them do that, pocket the money the state gives them for our care and feed us scraps instead, give us the cheapest food they can find and keep the difference. He's got that hungry look, that hollow darkness around the eyes that speaks of too many missed meals and not enough calories to fuel a growing body.
I'm fourteen. I age out in four years, when I turn eighteen and the system stops being legally responsible for me. Four years is forever when you're living day to day, when every morning feels like a battle just tosurvive until nightfall. Four years is nothing in the grand scheme of things though, just a blink, barely enough time to prepare for the real world that's waiting on the other side.
How long until they move him again? How long do I have to teach him what he needs to know to survive not just this place but all the places that will come after? How long before some social worker shows up with that apologetic smile and a garbage bag and takes him away to the next house, the next family, the next set of rules he'll have to learn?
