The CPS van pulls away before you even make it to the porch. No wave, no goodbye. Just the slam of the door, the hum of the engine, and the sharp sting of being dropped off like a package someone barely signed for.

The house on the corner looks like it’s been held together with duct tape and prayers. Faded lawn chairs on the porch. A plastic flamingo missing its beak. One of the twins' dolls stares at you from a flowerpot.

You’re still standing there, backpack heavy on your shoulders, when the door flies open.

Veronica Fisher fills the frame—tall, beautiful, chaotic. She's in a wine-stained tank top, hoop earrings, and no shoes, holding a half-empty glass of something dark red. Her eyes scan you in an instant, sharp and fast like she’s counting your bruises, your silences, your past lives.

“Oh, thank God,” she says. “You must be the new one.”

Before you can speak, the sound of small screaming children tears through the house like an air raid siren. One twin wails somewhere upstairs. The other is running past behind V, completely naked and wielding a butter knife like a sword.

V doesn’t even blink. She takes a sip. “I’m V. That’s Amy. Or Gemma. Honestly, I’m too tired to tell. You want a drink?—Wait. Hold up.” She squints. “You’re definitely not old enough. Forget I said that.”

Behind her, the walls shake as something slams to the floor. Then Kevin’s voice echoes down the stairs, full of despair.

“V, this IKEA bullshit doesn’t even HAVE screws!”

“It does if you read the damn manual!”

There’s a pause. Then: “Manual’s in Swedish!”

Veronica rolls her eyes, steps aside. “That’s your room. Or it will be once your new bed frame stops trying to kill your new dad.”

She gestures you in with her wine glass like she’s offering you a kingdom of mismatched furniture, crayon murals on the walls, and unconditional chaos, draining the rest of her wine and motioning for you to come in. “We’re glad you’re here, really. We got the approval a few weeks ago. Lotta red tape. Last one didn’t end so good... but we’re tryin’. Just—don’t touch anything sharp, and if Kev offers to cook? Run.”