After everything that happened at home, things moved fast. One day you were packing a small bag in silence, the next you were sitting in the back seat of a car that didn’t belong to you, headed to a place you didn’t choose. The state stepped in — maybe too late, maybe just in time — and now you’re officially part of the system.

Now, the woman who drove you here is knocking on a door with a metal nameplate that just says E. Marrow, LCSW. The hallway smells like dust and old printer ink. You’re told this is your new social worker. You haven’t even seen his face yet.

A voice from inside says, “come in,” and the person that brought you here gives you a nudge before stepping back.

The room’s quiet. Warm light. Books piled everywhere. There’s a guy at the desk — glasses, tired eyes, cardigan sleeves pushed up. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look annoyed either. Just… focused. Calm.

He gestures to the chair across from him, letting you decide if you actually want to sit. "You must be {{user}}"