PROLOGUE

Nothing is so good it lasts eternity,

perfect situations must go wrong

Two.

I feel safe. I am a Swan and my life is brilliant, normal and easy as breathing. I don't know much else.

It's my birthday and there's chocolate cake with two fat little candles; there is laughter and singing. Mommy and Daddy tell me to make a wish, but I don't know what to ask for. I say so and they laugh some more. It can be anything, they tell me with sparkling eyes. I barely blow them out without setting my blonde hair alight. I wish for more of this: more of this happiness, more of this laughter.

Five.

I look up at the whiteboard and see the numbers that I've learnt mean it's my birthday. My teacher knows and smiles kindly. She calls me Emma Grimes, and I'm so used to Emma Manning I almost don't answer. She wants me to go up in front of the class so they can sing. She chuckles when I tell her no, and gently pulls me up by my arm. I scream.

Mr Grimes tells the Nurse I'm a clumsy little tyke and then laughs loudly and winks at her. I hate his laugh. Usually, whatever he says before it is an untruth. I can tell, but I don't know how to make the pretty Nurse understand.

My head hurts from all the shouting Mr Grimes and my teacher and my Principal did before we got here. I feel better when he leaves to get coffee and the pretty Nurse finishes putting special hard bandages on my arm. She asks what happened and I tell her I fell down some steps. She asks which steps and I don't know what to say. She looks at me funny when I tell her to ask Mr Grimes.

Seven.

My new social worker, Mark, uses a hairbrush to roughly brush my hair into a ponytail, and it hurts to move my head afterwards. He yells that it's not normal for someone my age to have to move from foster home to group home so much. He shouts that the paperwork is horrendous. He tells me that I am an evil little shit who deserves to be punished. Crying on my birthday is not a new thing.

Eleven.

I kick the door until it shudders open. There's graffiti on all the walls and glass littering the floor. I'm grateful for the flashlight I bought today because the lights don't work and the last thing I need is my hands cut open – I need to be able to climb over fences and walls. They always find me when I run away, but I vow that this time they won't. I'm older, faster, stronger, and more than aware of how Social Services work.

I creep through the broken glass to an open doorway that leads into a smaller room with no windows. I want to sob in frustration when I flick my flashlight around and see a tatty old mattress with a boy sat atop it.

"I know you! You're Swan. You kicked Dean's ass in that fight last month," the boy says in a reverent tone. I shine the light in his face and recognise him too.

"Neal Cassidy. What the hell are you doing here?" I ask impatiently. I don't need more complications in a plan that's already riddled with holes.

"Hiding of course," he shrugs as if it's obvious, "the Riley's won't even notice I'm gone. Bet that's what you're doing too."

"Pastor Michael is back and trying to purge the home of unholy sinners," I say, using my fingers to air quote, "He locked me in my room all weekend," I say lightly, glancing around the space again and noticing little trinkets dotted around that belong to Neal.

"I hate that fucker. Remember the time he— "

"Yeah I probably do. Are you staying here long?" I interrupt him.

"As long as possible, yeah," he says warily. I catch him staring at my duffle bag.

"Steal my shit, Cassidy, and you won't have to worry about ever walking out of here. I found this place weeks ago, so you better believe I'm staying."

"Geez, I get it, calm down. I couldn't care less if you stay… Might even be cool," he murmurs the last part.

My superpower doesn't seem to work on him, which is odd. I study his facial expression a while and it seems honest. I sit next to him on the mattress.

"Happy Birthday by the way," he says nonchalantly and I can't help but smile. Maybe we can be friends.

Thirteen.

"Oh Emma," Rose gasps as two uniformed Police officers lead me into her tiny office and sit me down in the chair opposite her. My t-shirt is covered in blood; it's the bright crimson that spurted out of my foster brother's nose.

I zone out as they explain my crimes and hand her a slip of paper before they leave. She runs a hand through her shoulder-length hair as she reads whatever it is they've recommended this time. I try to keep my mind filled with blank static while we sit in silence.

I'm staring into space and jump when she crouches in front of me. She places her hands on my knees, looking up at me beseechingly. I can't seem to look away from her wounded eyes. She's been my social worker for a year and in that time, things have gone from bad to worse.

"They're threatening to send you to a Juvenile Detention Centre, Emma. I don't know if I'll be able to convince them not to go through with it," she says sadly, her thumbs rubbing circles on my jeans in comfort. A shiver runs through me. It can't be that bad, I try to convince myself, but one look at her downcast expression seems to prove me wrong.

"Please, Rose, you know I wouldn't do something like this without good reason! I needed to get away—"

"Emma, it doesn't matter why you felt you needed to do it. It doesn't matter that you're a foster child. It doesn't matter that you've been through hell and back to get to this point in your life. None of that matters when it comes to the law. All that matters in their eyes is that you've been arrested five times in the last two years and this time you put a teenager in the hospital!"

I didn't know he was in hospital. I punched him because he wouldn't take his hands off me. Hands that wanted nothing more than to 'fuck you senseless' —his exact words.

I can feel tears building up in my eyes. She has never shouted at me. I cringe as I remember Mark's words from years before. I deserve to be punished. Maybe he was right.

"I…I'm sorry. I didn't… I couldn't think of any other way out…" I can't finish. I didn't tell the Police why I did it either. My voice is weak because there's a lump in my throat.

"I'm disappointed you didn't feel you could come to me before it got to this point," Rose says softly, the anger in her voice dissipating. She lifts herself up and, before I can protest, pulls me up from the chair and into a tight hug. I can feel my tears soaking her blouse.

"But that's my fault," she continues, speaking into my hair, "I thought the Conners were a good fit. I'm sorry you have to move again and I'm even more sorry that you were considering running. Juvy isn't where you need to be. You're not a bad person, I know that, and you should know that I'm not giving up on you. Not now and not ever, Emma."

It's not until the next day that I see the date on the court hearing papers. Another birthday gone.

Seventeen.

Time is crawling at a snail's pace. From the time I was wheeled in on a gurney to now seems like a lifetime ago. The midwife comes in to check on me and I almost wish she didn't bother because the last thing I need to see, when my lower body is engulfed in agonising spasms, is the look of pure condescension on her face.

She slides her hands over my swollen belly; touching, pulling and massaging in equal measure, finally declaring that labour should be over any minute now and the next set of nurses will be right in. I can't help feeling like I'm at the bottom of their list of priorities. Teenage pregnancy is hardly endearing.

Any minute now, I chant silently. The contractions are barely seconds apart. I hear myself moaning, the groans a pitiful mixture of sadness and pain. Tears slip down my face and I curse at myself and Neal for being so typically young, naive and stupid. I won't be keeping this baby boy who shares his birthday with me…

But this has never yet prevented me,

wanting far too much for far too long…