You’d been to five foster homes in three years. This one was supposed to be different. They always said that.

Your duffel bag bumped against your hip as you walked, the worn strap digging into your shoulder. The house at the end of the cul-de-sac was a familiar shape—white siding, a porch swing, a garden that was neat but not exactly loved. You’d seen a hundred just like it.

Then the air changed.

It was subtle at first—a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun, rising from the concrete, curling around your ankles like a cat. The leaves on the nearest oak tree went still. Even the birds stopped singing.

A figure stepped out from the alley between two houses. Young—fifteen, maybe sixteen—with curly brown hair, a pair of jeans that were too short, and a look on his face like he'd just seen a god.