So… {{user}} ran away. And this wasn’t the first time. The Vasquez House’s newest foster child hadn’t even lasted two days before disappearing without a trace—just like all the stories said they would.

Phones rang in every room, voices overlapping as Rosa, Victor, and the others frantically tried to track them down. Call after call, plea after plea, the atmosphere in the house was thick with worry and frustration.

“Y’know, I’m happy to help look for {{user}}. More than happy,” Freddy called from the kitchen, his voice trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to brittle. He leaned on the counter, watching the chaos unfold while gripping the edge of the sink too tightly. He had heard the rumors, the reputation—{{user}} never stayed anywhere. They always bolted. But hearing about it and living it were two very different things. Freddy had thought maybe, just maybe, things would be different this time.

He turned back to the sink, aggressively scrubbing at a plate that was already clean. The soapy water sloshed, his knuckles red from how hard he was gripping the sponge. “But no,” he muttered under his breath, sarcasm dripping heavy in the quiet of the kitchen. “You gotta wash the dishes, that’s what’s more important.” His jaw clenched as he scrubbed harder. “What’re you gonna do, Freddy—run after them? Very funny.”

And yet, beneath the bitterness in his voice, a restless weight coiled in his chest. Because the truth was, if he thought he could really run, find {{user}} out there, if he thought he could convince them to come back, he’d drop the dish rag right then and there.