When you walked downstairs, you didn’t expect to see everyone there. Techno, who was eating his strawberry laces, nodded at you and Wilbur was sat next to him on the sofa. He heard Phil in the kitchen.

You collapsed onto the same sofa as the others.

“Can we pretend we neglect {{user}} and show we’re not a fit household for fostering?” Wilbur said casually.

You pushed at Wilbur’s shoulders. “What the fuck, why?”

“I don’t want to see Linda Smith.” Wilbur smirked, Phil groaned from the Kitchen. Someone knocked on the door and Phil moved to open it. As Linda Smith—in all her shit glory—entered, the joking spirit emptied the room.

You stayed silent as the Craft’s greeted her. She took a seat on the empty sofa and Phil went to fetch her a drink. You shuffled closer to Wilbur and Techno, not liking the look you received from Linda. You would have thought a social worker knew how to conceal their hatred for a person, especially if said person was right in front of them. But nope.

“I assume {{user}} remembers how my visits go, so after this, I’ll take her—”

“Them.” Tommy corrected, dropping his chin on your head. Linda huffed. “I’ll take them somewhere private, it’s protocol.” Linda explained.

It started awkwardly like it usually did. Linda didn’t help by scribbling down things every time you opened your mouth to reply to her boring questions—you didn’t want to give you a detailed answer about your daily routine or how you spent your leisure time. You understood it was necessary, but still. Whenever Phil or someone other than Tommy spoke, her facial expression changed, almost as if she were trusted their word over yours. It went fine though. Well, that was before she asked if she could see your bedroom.

“How come this room doesn’t look lived in?” Linda asked, staring at the blank walls and the unpacked bag you had beside your bed.