Almost thirteen years ago, a man and a woman loved each other very much, and decided that they needed to share that love with a child of their very own, one that might have its mother's hair and its father's eyes, and be smarter than every kid on the block. Then, one of them died in a tragic accident and the other couldn't bear to raise their daughter alone.

Or, almost thirteen years ago, a man and a woman met one night and maybe weren't as careful as they should have been. Then, a couple weeks later, the woman took a pregnancy test and it turned out positive. She called him and they determined that neither of them were in a state to take care of a child, so they both signed away their right to raise one.

Or, almost thirteen years ago, a man and a woman met one night and things didn't go so well. Maybe when the woman found out about her pregnancy, she only associated her child with awful things its father had done.

Maybe even, almost thirteen years ago, a woman discovered she was pregnant, but the choice to keep her baby was taken away from her by her awful parents, who made her leave it at a fire station. Sophie liked this one best, because it meant that maybe her mother was still looking for her, looking to take her back and to raise her. Sophie also knew that this one was the least likely.

At twelve years old, Sophie Elizabeth Foster had exactly three things to her name: an old backpack, a bright blue elephant given to her by her first foster parents, the ones she had when she was a baby, of the age to sleep with stuffed animals and be adopted, and a copy of J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan. Even her name had been decided upon by the firefighters who found her. According to Mr. Forkle, they had thought she looked like a 'Sophie Elizabeth', and her baby self had taken to that name quickly. So quickly, that within the few hours it took to get a representative of Child Protective Services to the station, she had refused to respond to anything else, and not even her third pair of foster parents calling her Lizzie eight months later had managed to break her of that. Not that she was counting foster parents (Grady and Edaline Ruewen would be her eighth).

A hand landed on her shoulder. Had it been anyone else, she would have ducked out immediately, but Mr. Forkle wasn't anyone. He was the only constant in her life (which was kinda sad if she thought about it for too long, that her case worker was her only constant). "These people will be different," he promised. Sophie didn't listen. He said the same words every time. She hefted her backpack over her other shoulder.

"Let's just get the requisite pleasantries out of the way," she muttered. He sighed, leading the way through the gate.

The house was even bigger up close. Sophie had always found big spaces intimidating. The only time she had brought this up had been in her sixth foster home, and her roommates had agreed. One of them had said that it was because there was never enough stuff to fill the space. In that bedroom, which they had measured once and discovered was just under 130 square feet, three twin beds, a dresser, a closet, and a small bookshelf fit with open space. Even with three occupants, only the dresser and half of the closet were full. Sophie had learned from years of quick moves to keep the important stuff in her backpack at all times anyway. "What if I just refuse to go in," she asked, "Like, would I still be their foster kid, or could I go back to my emancipation plan?"

"You're twelve," Mr. Forkle pointed out. "No judge would approve that. Wait until you're legally old enough to get a job, at least."

"Hence why it's a plan, and not reality," Sophie grumbled. He rolled his eyes.

"Let's go. Maybe you'll like them; they've got a nephew your age." Sophie didn't grace that with an answer. Mr. Forkle sighed. He did that a lot. It was usually Sophie's fault. She studiously examined the walkway. "Sophie, please. Grady and Edaline are good people. The best I've found since–" He cut himself off rapidly. Sophie wished he hadn't said anything. None of the other kids in the system she had met ever liked to be reminded that they had aged out of the desirable age. "Besides," he continued, getting back on track, "even if it doesn't work out-"

"Which it won't, because it never does."

"Even if it doesn't work out, you'll have the other seven pairs of foster parents that will likely be ranked below them."

Sophie didn't respond, double-checking that her backpack was closed before walking down the path to the door. Mr. Forkle sighed again, rushing to catch up with her.

Sophie waited for him to ring the doorbell, staring blankly at the ornate door. It was opened quickly, startling them both. A redheaded woman stood in the doorway. Mr. Forkle stepped forward. "Edaline," he greeted.

"Forkle," she returned. Then, her eyes turned to Sophie, who was trying her best to be invisible. "You must be Sophie," her voice quavered a little and Sophie was selfishly grateful that at least one person was as nervous as she was.

"Yes," Sophie said curtly. Edaline blinked. Then, she extended her hands as though to clasp Sophie's, but she pulled away quickly. Awkwardly, Edaline's settled themselves back at her sides.

A blond man came up behind her. He flashed a friendly smile. Sophie figured this was Grady, Edaline's husband. The quick facts she knew about them flashed through her head. They ran an animal rehabilitation center on their property. Grady sometimes traveled to other cities in the county, or other counties in the region. Edaline liked to bake. They had a daughter, a biological one who was in college but came home on the weekends sometimes. Her name was Jolie. Sophie was their first foster kid. She resisted the urge to tug an eyelash out while they all stared at each other.

After several moments, Edaline cleared her throat. "Well," she said quietly, "why don't you both come inside."