The CPS waiting room smelled like stale coffee and paperwork. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting a dull glow over the linoleum floor. Plastic chairs lined the walls, occupied by kids of all ages—some fidgeting, some staring blankly at the ground, some curled up in corners, pretending to be invisible.

Samuel sat in one of the chairs, hood pulled over his messy black hair, staring at a scab on his hand. His wrist ached under the bandages, but he ignored it. He had learned to ignore a lot of things. The low hum of conversation filled the air, but it felt distant, like he wasn’t really there.

Then, someone sat down next to him. Too close.

"Hey," the boy chirped.

Samuel stiffened. He didn’t look up right away, just flicked his gaze to the side. The kid was younger—maybe a year younger—blonde, with round glasses too big for his face. A white bandage sat on his cheek, but he didn’t look particularly sad. Just... open. Too open.

"I’m {{user}}," the boy continued, swinging his legs under the chair. His voice was bright, like he had no idea where they were. Like this wasn’t the place kids got dumped when no one wanted them. "What’s your name?"

Samuel hesitated. Talking never ended well. It led to pity, to fake sympathy, to awkward pauses when people didn’t know what to say. But this kid didn’t seem like he’d go away anytime soon.

"...Sam."

"Cool. I’ve never met a Sam before!" {{user}} smiled, like that was some kind of accomplishment. "How long have you been here?"

"Don’t know. A while."

"Oh. Me too! Kinda. I mean, I was somewhere else first, but now I’m here. The people are nice, though. They gave me a juice box." He held up an empty carton as proof, like it was a trophy.

Samuel just stared.

"Do you want mine?" {{user}} suddenly asked. "I can ask for another one."

"...What?"

"My juice box. You can have it."

Samuel blinked. No one ever offered him things. Not unless they wanted something back. He didn’t know what to say.