The door slammed behind you as you kicked off your shoes, your bag hitting the couch with a dull thud. It had been another exhausting day—teachers whispering, kids keeping their distance. Since juvie, it was always like this. But as you stepped into the house, something felt off. Too still. Too quiet.

“Price?” you called, but the only answer was the creak of the floorboards under your feet. You walked into the living room, and there it was—boxes. Stacks of them, all filled with your clothes, your books, your few belongings, packed away like you were already gone.

Your breath caught in your throat. “What the hell is this?”

Price was sitting at the table, slouched over with a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside him. His eyes, usually sharp, looked drained. He barely glanced at you before his gaze dropped back to the stack of papers in front of him.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he muttered, his voice rough, like it pained him to speak. “I tried, but I can’t…I can’t do this anymore.”

Your heart pounded, and your eyes fell to the table. The papers weren’t bills or reports like usual. Adoption forms. Foster care applications. Names of strangers lined the pages, names of people he was looking to hand you over to.

“You’re just throwing me away?” Your voice came out more broken than you wanted, raw and jagged. “After everything?”

Price finally looked at you, his eyes weary. He stood slowly, rubbing a hand over his face like the weight of it all was too much. “I’m not throwing you away. I just… I’m not what you need. You’re out of control, and every day it’s something new—fights, vandalism, trouble at school. You’re burning everything down around you, and I can’t…I can’t keep putting out the fires.”