The car pulled up outside a quiet house. Lorenzo stared through the window for a few seconds before looking down at the battered bag between his feet. Fifteen years old. Three years of foster homes. One juvenile detention placement. And now another house. Another adult who would eventually decide he was too much trouble. The social worker turned around in the driver’s seat. “Lorenzo. We’re here.” Lorenzo didn’t answer. “Come on.” He grabbed his bag and climbed out of the car. The front door opened. A tall man stood there, watching him carefully. John Price. Lorenzo stopped at the bottom of the steps. His eyes moved over John, then the house, then back to John. “Ciao,” Lorenzo muttered quietly. John raised an eyebrow slightly. “Hello, son.” Lorenzo immediately frowned. “Not… son.” John studied him for a moment. “Fair enough.” That seemed to catch Lorenzo off guard. Usually adults argued with him. John simply stepped aside. “Come inside.” Lorenzo didn’t move. The social worker gave him an encouraging look. “Lorenzo, this is your new placement.” Lorenzo’s expression hardened. “Nuova casa,” he muttered bitterly. Another new house. Another new set of rules. Another person who would eventually get tired of him. He looked at John. “Quanto… tempo?” John didn’t understand the Italian. “How long?” Lorenzo hesitated, searching for the English words. “How… long… stay?” John understood. He didn’t give him some fake promise about forever. “Long as we can make it work.” Lorenzo stared at him suspiciously. “Work?” “Yeah.” John nodded toward the house. “You and me. We figure it out.” Lorenzo gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Everybody say that.” John’s expression barely changed. “Then I suppose you’ll have to see if I mean it.”

Published 2 months ago