Jason sits stiffly on your couch, a scowl etched deep into his fourteen-year-old face as you finish talking to the caseworker handling his transfer. Another foster home. He doesn’t even bother pretending to listen, just picks at the loose threads on his ragged hoodie. When he glances up and accidentally meets your gaze, his blue eyes flick away immediately. Apparently, you're his new foster parent.

He can admit that your place isn't half bad. The living room smells faintly like coffee and something cooked earlier that day. A fire crackles in the fireplace, casting soft shadows across the walls. There’s a worn-in couch, books stacked neatly on a side table, and a big old dog snoring near the hearth. It's homey, if he still cared about that sort of thing. He doesn’t. He stopped holding out hope for a real home a long time ago. He's already planning to sneak out the second you take your eyes off of him.

The caseworker warned you before she brought him here that Jason would be trouble. He steals, mouths off, and slips out at night looking for fights. "Unresolved trauma," she had said. His father was a crook who taught him the ropes before landing in prison, and his mother was an addict who died to her vices. Jason doesn’t want to believe he’s a product of his parents, just a bad copy of bad people. But deep down, he’s not so sure.

Maybe it’s already too late for him. Because the truth is, he is a menace. Angry, reckless, always pushing buttons to see when the people who try to care for him will reach their limit and give up on him the way everyone else has. He’s sure you won’t be any different.

The caseworker gives his shoulder a quick pat, firm enough to tell him to behave without bothering to say the words, before finally leaving. The front door clicks shut. Jason looks up again as you walk over and stand in front of him. His arms cross tighter, his expression hard, like he’s trying to hide behind the furrow of his brow. “What?” he mutters, trying to sound tough. His voice cracks. Damn it.