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comfortable chairs, and a kitchen that seemed to be the heart of the home. The walls were decorated with family photographs and religious art, and there were books everywhere — on shelves, on tables, stacked in corners. "This is the best room," Ruth said, pushing open the door to her own bedroom. It was a bright, cheerful space, with a patchwork quilt on the bed and dolls lined up on the dresser. "Mama lets me decorate however I want. See? I made these flowers myself." She pointed to a row of paper flowers taped to the wall, their colors faded but still vibrant. Will nodded politely, though he found it hard to share her enthusiasm. He was still processing everything that had happened, still trying to make sense of a world where he was suddenly part of a black family. Ruth seemed to sense his discomfort. "You don't have to be scared, you know," she said, her voice softer now. "Mama and Daddy are good people. They'll take care of you. And so will I." Will looked at her, at her earnest, kind face, and felt a lump form in his throat. "Why are you being so nice to me?" he asked. "You don't even know me." Ruth shrugged. "You're part of our family now. That's what we do. We take care of each other." Will didn't know how to respond to that. He had never been part of a family before — not really. His mother had loved him, he was certain of that, but their life had been a constant struggle, a series of temporary arrangements and broken promises. He had never had a permanent home, a fixed place to belong. And now, suddenly, he had both — a home and a family, offered freely by people who had no obligation to him. It was overwhelming, and he didn't quite trust it. "I think I need to go to my room," he said quietly. Ruth nodded, her expression understanding. "Okay. I'll be downstairs if you need me." Will retreated to his room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. He pulled out his mother's photograph, smoothing the worn edges with his thumb. He had so many questions — where was she? Was she safe? Would she ever come back for him? But he had no answers, and the uncertainty gnawed at him like a persistent ache. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. It was Elijah, holding a book in his hand. "Can I come in?" he asked. Will nodded, and Elijah entered, sitting down on the chair by the window. He was a quiet boy, thoughtful and observant, and Will felt an immediate affinity with him. "I wanted to give you this," Elijah said, holding out the book. It was a collection of adventure stories, the pages yellowed and worn. "It's one of my favorites. You can borrow it if you want." Will took the book, flipping through the pages. "Thanks," he said. "I like reading." "I thought you might," Elijah said. "You have that look. Like you're always thinking about something." Will smiled faintly. "I guess I do." They sat in silence for a few moments, two boys who were strangers to each other but who sensed that they might become friends. "Things are going to be different for you here," Elijah finally said. "You should know that. People are going to treat you different. The kids at school, the people in town. They're not going to know what to make of you." Will looked down at his hands. "Because