“Do you have a bag?”

I point to the closet and watch as she starts going through my dresser, packing up my clothes. She roams around, going back and forth between my bedroom and the bathroom as I clutch the flowers to my chest.

“You ready to go?” she asks when she steps back into the room, but I don’t want to look at her because I don’t want to go.

Staring out the window and up into the blue sky, I ask, “When can I come back?”

“I’m not sure,” she responds. “Probably not for a while.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her move across the room and kneel down beside me. As I turn to look at her, she says, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.” She looks down at the daisies. “Those are pretty flowers. Do you want to bring them with you?”

Leaving the house, we walk out to her car and I hop into the back seat. As I look out the window, I watch the policeman shut the front door to my house and lock some sort of black box onto the door handle.

“What’s that?” I ask Barbara, who’s sitting up front.

“What’s what, dear?”

“That thing he put on the door.”

She looks over to see what I’m talking about and responds, “It’s just a lock since we don’t have the keys,” and then starts driving away while I hold tightly to my flowers.

IT’S BEEN THREE years since I was taken away from my home and placed in foster care. Three years since I’ve seen my dad. I was told he was trafficking guns to South America. I still don’t understand everything, but then again, I’m just an eight-year-old kid. A ward of the state of Illinois. Three years and I miss my dad every day. No one will take me to go see him since he’s over six hours away, serving his nine-year sentence in Menard Prison.

I sit in my room and wait on my caseworker, Barbara, to come pick me up to take me to my new home. Three years and I’m leaving my fifth home to go to my sixth. The first place I went was in the same town of Northbrook, where I’d lived. But after getting caught sneaking out of my bedroom window a few times during the night, they said they couldn’t manage me, and so I left. The same thing has happened at each home I’ve lived in.

At first I was scared. I cried a lot. I missed my dad and would scream for him, but he never came. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. I’m not gonna get to see him until he gets out. I’ll be fourteen years old. Fourteen is my new lucky number. I count everything in groups of fourteen just to remind myself that the time will come when I can see him again and we can go back to our life together in our nice house in our nice neighborhood. I miss his smile and the way he smelled. I can’t explain it, but sometimes when I’d be at preschool, I can faintly remember lifting my shirt to inhale his scent when I was missing him. The smell of my dad.

Comfort.

Home.

When I hear the doorbell ring, I know it’s time. I’ve been through several home switches before. You’d think I’d be scared, but I’m used to it now. So I grab my bags and head out to the front door. Barbara is standing there talking to Molly, the foster mom that doesn’t want to deal with me anymore. They both turn as I approach and say hi.

“You ready, Elizabeth?” Barbara asks.

Nodding my head, I walk past Molly as she places her hand on my shoulder, saying, “Wait.”

She kneels down to give me a hug, but I don’t return it. I’m sad, but I don’t cry; I just wanna leave, so when she lets go, that’s what I do.

While I sit in the passenger seat, watching the buildings pass by as Barbara drives, she turns down the radio and says, “Talk to me, kid.”

I hate when she calls me kid, like I’m not special enough for her to use my name. She only uses it when there are other people around, but alone, I’m kid.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I’ve found five good homes for you, and you’ve managed to get kicked out of every one of them. You keep me busy, you know that?”

I’m not sure if she really wants a response, so I stay quiet before she adds, “You can’t keep sneaking out at night. What the hell are you doing out on the streets in the middle of the night anyway?”

“Nothing,” I mutter just to say something to appease her. Truth is, I started sneaking out to see if I could find Carnegie. Sounds stupid now, but when I was five, I thought he’d be there, waiting for me to find him. So I would sneak out and walk around, hoping to stumble upon that magical forest. It never happened, and now I’m old enough to know fairytales aren’t real, but I still sneak out and look for the forest anyway.

“Well, listen, I couldn’t find a home to place you in around here, so you’re gonna be in a different town. You’re not gonna be seeing me anymore since I don’t live there. I’m still going to handle your case, but Lucia will be your contact. She should be doing a visit with you later this week. But a piece of advice—stop causing issues or the next stop will be a group home.”

“So I won’t see you again?”

She looks over at me, saying, “Probably not, kid.”

We’ve been in the car for almost two hours when we finally exit the highway.

“Welcome to Posen,” Barbara says, and it isn’t but a couple minutes later when she pulls into a rundown neighborhood.

Chain-link fences run alongside the cracked sidewalks. The homes are old and small, unlike the large brick house I lived in with my dad. Most of these homes have cars parked on their unkempt lawns, chipped paint, and everything about what I’m seeing brings on a well of tears. My stomach knots, and I turn to Barbara, saying, “I don’t think I want to live here, Barb.”

“Shoulda thought about that when I told you to stop sneaking out at night.”

“I promise. I won’t do it again. I’ll say sorry to Molly,” I beg, and when she pulls into the drive of a dirty, old, two-story house that looks like it’s barely standing, I start crying. “Please. I don’t wanna live here. I wanna go home.”

She turns the car off and looks over at me. I feel like I’d do just about anything to convince her to turn the car around and take me back to Northbrook.

“I’m in a bind. You’re eight years old with an unstable home history. Now this family has been fostering for years. They are currently fostering a boy a few years older than you,” she tells me. “I talked to them just the other day. You’ll have your very own room and will go to the same school as their other foster kid.”

I keep my mouth shut and listen. I don’t want to be here. I wanna run, just open this car door and run as fast as I can. I wonder if she’d be able to catch me.

“You listening?” she asks and refocuses my attention back to her.

I nod my head.

“Come on. I’ve got a long drive back,” she says as she gets out of the car and opens the back door to grab my bags.

With a shaking hand, I open the door and follow her along the weathered driveway to the steps leading up to the front door. The rusted screen door squeaks loudly as she opens it and knocks a few times. I stand there, picking at my nails, praying to God that no one opens the door. That this is all a big mistake and we’re at the wrong house.

But it isn’t a mistake, and someone does answer the door. A woman, dressed in a homely, long, denim skirt and a light purple sweater, opens the door. I stare at her as Barbara starts to talk. The woman doesn’t look scary, but I still feel like bolting. She looks down at me and gives me a soft smile. Her ratty ponytail is attempting to tame her long, brown, frizzy hair.

Stepping aside, she invites us in, and the place smells like stale cigarette smoke. While she leads us through the small living room and back to the kitchen, the two of them continue to talk as I take everything in. Wood-paneled walls, brown carpet, mismatched furniture, and ducks everywhere. Everywhere. Ducks on pillows, wooden ducks, ceramic ducks, glass ducks. They line the book shelves, cover the tables, and when I look up, they are even on top of the kitchen cabinets.