I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest, pressed against the pale blue wall of the small bedroom. The air smells of Pine Sol and something sharp, a scent that almost masks the undercurrent of fear and loneliness I’ve carried with me from other houses, other beds. The comforter is thin and scratchy, patterned in faded yellow ducks; it’s meant for someone much younger. I rub the edge between my fingers, a nervous ritual that’s followed me from place to place.
Eric is across the room, unpacking our plastic bag of belongings onto the dresser—three shirts, two pairs of pants, one stuffed animal with a torn ear. He glances at me, his face tight, as if he’s bracing for another storm. I want to go sit beside him, but the two twin beds between us feel like a border I’m not sure how to cross, not tonight, not in this new place where the rules aren’t yet clear.
Down the hall, I catch voices. Mr. and Mrs. Moanale speak in deliberate, careful tones with the caseworker, whose heels click on the linoleum. They say our names sometimes. Each time, I freeze—waiting for the verdict, the next announcement that will change everything, send us packing again. But for now, the voices fade, and the only sound is the faint hum of the ceiling fan overhead.
I want to ask if this will be our room for more than a week. I want to ask if the people here will remember our birthdays, or if they will remember to say goodnight, to check for nightmares. I want to ask if Eric and I can stay together, just one more time. But I’ve already learned not to ask. The answers aren’t ours to know.
Eric looks up from the dresser, clutching his stuffed animal. “Do you think we’ll get to go outside?” His voice is barely a whisper.
I think of the yard I glimpsed through the car window—green grass, a swing set, a tall fence. It’s bigger than anywhere we’ve been allowed before. But the memory of other yards stings me. I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
Footsteps approach. The bedroom door opens, and Mrs. Moanale appears. She’s a tall woman with short, careful hair and kind, tired eyes. She studies both of us, and for a second I hope she sees the fear we’re trying to hide. She softens her voice.
“It’s time for dinner. Come wash up, boys.”
Eric stands, looking at me. I stand too, slow, every muscle tight, waiting for permission I don’t know how to ask for. We follow her down the hallway, past photographs of other children whose names we’ll never know. The dining room table is set with four plates, silverware glinting under the bright light. Mr. Moanale sits at the end, nodding in our direction, his face unreadable.
“Go ahead, take a seat,” Mrs. Moanale says. Her smile is practiced, but not unkind.
I slide into a chair and Eric sits beside me, clutching his stuffed animal tight in his lap. The food is chicken and rice and green beans—hot and ordinary in a way that makes my stomach twist.
Halfway through the meal, Mr. Moanale asks, “Do you boys like school?”
The question hovers above the table. I wonder if this is a test, if answering wrong means we’ll have to leave sooner. If saying too much, or too little, will make us seem ungrateful or difficult. Eric looks at me for a cue, his mouth too full of rice to speak. I swallow, words like pebbles in my throat.
Before I can answer, a sharp knock sounds at the front door. Everyone pauses, forks midair. Mrs. Moanale exchanges a look with her husband, then stands, napkin in hand. Fear braces my chest. Another adult, another piece of paper, another reason to pack?
She disappears down the hall toward the door. I can feel Eric’s hand searching under the table for mine. I take it, squeezing tight as we sit, waiting, afraid of what will be said next, of what news might come through that door. The sound of voices—tense, urgent—rises and falls in the front hallway. The future hangs in the air, trembling, just beyond our reach.
The front door swings shut. Mrs. Moanale’s footsteps return, quicker now. She rounds the corner, her face unreadable. She looks at us, then at her husband.
“They want to talk to the boys,” she says softly. “Right now.”