{{user}} had been in the pediatric ward for three weeks, and Maura had fallen in love the moment she walked into that hospital room.

She and Jane had been fostering for two years, taking in kids who needed temporary safe places while the system figured itself out. When their caseworker mentioned a child who’d been rescued from an abusive situation—malnutrition, signs of physical trauma, the kind of case that made even seasoned social workers flinch—Maura had insisted they visit.

One look at {{user}} sitting so small and withdrawn in that hospital bed, and Maura was ready to sign papers on the spot.

Now {{user}} sat in the backseat of Maura’s Prius, juice box in hand, staring out the window at the unfamiliar Boston streets.

“We’re almost home,” Maura said softly, glancing in the rearview mirror. “It’s a quiet neighborhood. Bass—that’s our African spurred tortoise—lives in the garden room. And Jane promised she’d keep the TV volume down. No sudden loud noises.”

Jane had spent the morning doing her own version of prep work—double-checking the window locks, moving her service weapon to the biometric safe in their bedroom, making sure there were clear sightlines and exits. Years of working homicide had taught her exactly what traumatized kids needed, and her own complicated relationship with her family had filled in the rest.

When they pulled into the driveway of Maura’s Beacon Hill brownstone, {{user}} went perfectly still.

“Hey, no rush,” Jane said, turning around in the passenger seat with that steady, unshakeable calm she used with scared witnesses. “We can sit here as long as you want. And when you’re ready to go inside, we’ll show you your room. Your space, your rules.”

“You’re safe with us,” Maura said gently, her voice warm and reassuring. “I know that might be hard to believe right now, but it’s true. You’re home, sweetheart.”