How This House Works

There were four of us in the house that spring — me, Ruby, Sam, who was four and mostly silent, and a rotating fifth bed that never stayed empty long, because Denise got paid by the child, not by the year.

I'd learned the math of that too, the way I'd learned the math of the spoon. The county gave foster parents a monthly stipend per kid. More kids meant more money. A house that stayed full stayed profitable, and the fastest way to keep a house full was to keep it just barely tolerable enough that state visits didn't ask too many questions and just harsh enough that none of us dared answer them honestly if they did.

I'd been in three homes before this one. This was the first where I understood, clearly enough to explain it to a five-year-old, that survival mostly came down to making yourself small enough not to be worth the effort of hurting.

Except somebody had to not be small. Ruby couldn't do the trick yet. Sam had stopped talking almost entirely, which was its own kind of disappearing, but it didn't stop Denise from finding reasons.

So I did the thing that made me the opposite of small. I made noise before they had to. I answered back before Denise's attention could land anywhere lower to the ground than my own eye level.

It worked, mostly. I had more bruises than either of them by a wide margin, and I'd decided a long time ago that was an acceptable trade, the same way the shoulder was.

What I hadn't planned for was a sixth bed.