A/N This story will alternate between Sara. Nick, and the social worker's POV.

Nick's POV

I can't believe it. Only yesterday, I told mom I hated her because she took away my phone. Now, I'd give anything to see her again. So much can change in a few hours. I never thought that I could possibly end up as a ward of the state. I'm a straight A student in the gifted program. My parents are, or should I say, were kind to me and all my needs were met. I'm the kid who makes other parents jealous. My sister, Sara? The only trouble she's ever been in was getting detentions for talking too much in class.

"You have thirty minutes to pack." the social worker says, finally calming down after telling us of her daughter's abduction. "Normally, the rule is one garbage bag of clothes and belongings per child; however, in light of today's events, I will make an exception. Fill up any bags you may have in addition to the garbage bag I provide. I'll hide them in my trunk."

Sara and I both head to our rooms. Thirty minutes to pack up our memories. Most of the things I want to keep can't be packed. How do you fit the smell of mom's peanut butter cookies into a suitcase? How can you stuff the feeling of sitting in the grass, leaning against our big oak tree on a warm spring day to sketch or read a good novel into a duffle bag? How can you put the sound of a train going by in the trunk of a car?

I start to pack. I put my clothes, socks, underwear, and toiletries in one bag. Then I put all my video games and gaming systems in another. I fill up my garbage bag with my books. I fill up two suitcases with my phone, wallet, and other odds and ends.

I take my stuff into the living room. Sara is sitting on the couch. She's done packing. I can hear her muffled sobs. I can tell she's trying to be strong for me. I feel like crying too. Our parents were probably abducted by aliens. Sara thought I was being ridiculous, but I knew those lights in the sky weren't from anything normal. I wonder what they want. Are they doing experiments on everyone? Are the kids being tortured?

The social worker tells us to put our stuff in the trunk, and get in her car. Sara sits on the left, I sit on the right.

"The nearest pair of foster parents, our, at least, the nearest competent foster parents, are three hours away. Just pretend you're on a road trip." the social worker says with a smile.

I stare at her as she's driving. She has short dark hair, just like mom. She has a gentle, kind voice just like dad. She's like a carbon copy of my parents. My real parents. Not the freaks she's going to be forcing us to live with.

I know what foster parents are like. Up until third grade, my best friend was in foster care. His name was Charles McKinnly. He never changed his clothes, so by November he was coming to school in tattered rags. He was thin as a rail, and didn't bathe often. He had bruises and marks all the time too. When I asked him about them at recess, he would swear that he and his brothers were just playing too rough the previous night. As a gullible eight year old, I bought it. When I asked about his clothes and hygiene, he'd change the subject. When it was time to start fourth grade,I noticed Charles wasn't there. I asked my mom. She simply told me that Charles had moved away. It was two years later that I learned the truth. Somebody got mad and called a social worker on his parents. The social worker that came was the caller's best friend. She gave Charles a bag of candy to say the sentences "I'm scared of daddy", "mommy doesn't love me" and "my parents hit me." He was only four at the time. He had no clue what was going on. All he knew was he wanted candy, and this particular candy was a type of candy his parents rarely let him have. His foster parents were abusive. He was only allowed to own one outfit every few months. He wasn't allowed to shower more than once a month. If he misbehaved, no matter how slightly, he was denied lunch money or, during weekends and school breaks, was given what they called "punishment" which meant the only food he would get would be plain crackers and water for 24 solid hours. And even then, he only got five per meal. To sneak an extra one, or eat one before a meal, resulted in a beating and a twelve hour extension. The parents' biological children were treated well. Eventually, he told my teacher what was going on, and a different social worker put him back with his parents.

I know how they'll treat me. Probably just like him. I'll be a second class citizen in my own home!

And this woman expects us to trust her. The path to hell is paved with good intentions.