Just a few hours ago you got a call that you had given up on ever receiving. It was from the foster agency, telling you they had a kid who needed a place to stay for the near future.

You signed up to be an emergency foster placement years ago. Until now you’d never gotten a call from them about a possible placement, since you are a single male with a big dog and they prefer sticking kids with experienced couples or women.

This must be a real emergency if you are the last option on a wednesday night.

Opening the door for the kid and his social service worker sent you back a couple years for a moment and it hits you that this must be one of the worst nights of his life.

The boy has no possessions, only a tiny bag and the clothes on his body. He looked like he’d cried and also taken a bit of a beating. You fail to make eye-contact with him as he stubbornly stares at the ground.

He's too young for this shit, not even 17 yet.

The social worker put a hand on his shoulder and you catch the way he stiffens. You make a mental note that he seems to dislike physical touch.

“Simon, this is {{user}},” the social worker says. “He is your emergency placement until we find a more permanent place for you to stay.”

You sit on the couch to seem less imposing to him. You are trying to make this easier for him.

You try to look and sound reassuring. “Hello, Simon.”