After I cleaned the room, I dashed out to Whole Foods, throwing things in my shopping cart with wild abandon—ready-made meals and organic yogurt and bags of carrot sticks and bunches of grapes. I threw in some pediatric natural medicine too—Rescue Remedy and some essential oils and some homeopathic stuff I would normally never even look at.

It was only as I was paying for it all that I remembered I might not even be able to give it to him, not without the parent’s permission.

Him. I don’t even know his name. All I know is he’s seven years old, and he’s just been removed from his mother—why? I have no idea.

All these thoughts are flashing through my mind as I stand by the door, waiting for this anonymous little boy to show up.

Nick texted to say he’d be late, stuck in traffic on the south side of town with Josh, after picking him up from practice. I’m doing this first bit on my own, and I feel both excited and terrified, everything I learned in that ten-week course seeming to fall right out of my head. I thought I’d been paying attention, but right now I can’t remember a single relevant detail.

A few tense and endless minutes later, a beat-up Ford Focus cruises slowly down the street before pulling into our driveway. Monica is driving and there is a woman I don’t recognize in the passenger seat, a fiftyish grandmotherly type with a neat bob and a kind, tired face. I can’t see anyone in the back, but he—this little boy—must be seated there.

I catch my breath audibly, unsure if I should open the door now or if that would be too exuberant, too much. I want to be natural and friendly, but both feel beyond me right now; I feel like a robot, awkward and mechanical.

Taking another deep breath, I open the door and smile. Monica is already getting out of the car.

“Ally,” she calls. “Hi. Thanks for being able to do this on such short notice.”

“Of course, it’s no problem.”

Monica nods to the other woman who is now opening the back door of the car. “This is Susan, Dylan’s caseworker.”

“Nice to meet you.”

She flashes me a quick, weary smile before she reaches into the car, presumably to unbuckle Dylan from his car seat. Dylan. I wait for him to appear, having no idea what to expect.

Monica opens the other back door and takes out two battered-looking backpacks. Is that all he has? I keep my expressi

on friendly and interested, trying not to show what I think of his lack of possessions. I remember how, in the course, Monica said foster kids often come to a placement with a few clothes held in a trash bag, sometimes nothing at all.

“These are his things,” she says now, and I take the backpacks.

Susan has helped Dylan out of the car, and she leads him by the hand towards me.

The first thing I think is how small he is—such a slight boy, with a mop of dark hair that hangs in front of his eyes. His head is lowered so I can’t see his face, and he is walking so close to Susan he’s in danger of tripping her up. He’s wearing a dirty T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts that are ripped. Again, indignation burns through me at the sight of those raggedy clothes, a self-righteous fire I do my best to dampen. Now is not the time for those kinds of thoughts. I know that much.

“Hey, Dylan.” Thankfully, my voice comes out friendly and normal, pitched right, without that manic, patronizing cheerfulness that is so easy to adopt with children you don’t know. “I’m Ally. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

No response, but I wasn’t really expecting one.

I open the screen door to the house; it’s still warm for October, and Nick hasn’t changed the screens to storms yet.

Monica flashes me a reassuring smile as she and Susan, still holding Dylan by the hand, walk inside.

Back when we were approved for foster care, we had our home assessed and approved, and yet I feel nervous now, as if something must be out of line, and Monica or Susan will point their finger to the crystal vase on the living room mantelpiece, or the PlayStation in the family room, and say Sorry, that’s against regulations.

They don’t, though. Of course they don’t. Monica murmurs something about what a nice home it is, and I lead them back into the kitchen, with its two steps down to the big family room that we extended about ten years ago. It’s all nice and neat, because I’d just tidied up, but I don’t know whether it’s actually welcoming. There are no toys.

“So, Dylan,” Susan says. “This is where you’re going to be staying for a little while.”

Dylan doesn’t respond; I’m not sure he can even take it in.

“Should I show him his bedroom?” I ask, and then feel guilty for talking about him like he’s not there. Why does this feel so fraught?

“Maybe in a few minutes,” Susan says. “Perhaps I’ll show Dylan outside while Monica briefs you on the situation?” She gives Monica a significant look, and she nods.

“Oh, okay. Sure.” I practically leap to the French windows. “I’ll just unlock them,” I mutter, fumbling with the key and finally opening the doors. I step aside as Susan takes Dylan out onto the deck. It’s late afternoon, the sunlight like liquid gold, and the air still holds the warmth of a forgotten summer.

I watch them for a moment, noting how Susan keeps up a steady, cheerful patter while Dylan remains silent and unresisting, almost like a little zombie as they walk around our fenced-in yard, a few fallen leaves caught in the grass like discarded jewels—crimson, ochre, gold.

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