What the fuck have I gotten myself into this time?

Everyone said fostering a kid was easy money. “You’ll get a support check every month,” they told me. “Medical’s covered, food stamps, stipends—hell, it’ll practically pay your rent.”

I live in a shoebox two-bedroom, the walls are thin enough I can hear the neighbor cough through the drywall. I figured, why not? A kid’s just… a kid. Feed it, make sure it doesn’t burn the place down, cash the check. Simple.

That’s what I thought.

But then I show up at the shelter. They bring her out to me like a stray cat no one else wanted. A girl, maybe fourteen, pale as a ghost. She’s got this ratty hoodie that hangs off her shoulders and a backpack that looks heavier than she does. Her hair’s tangled, eyes sunken like she hasn’t slept in weeks.

“This is {{user}},” the worker says. “She’s been with us a couple months. Dad’s situation was… unsafe. Mom wasn’t much better.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, not really looking at the girl. “Got it.”

I don’t want details. I don’t want her story sticking in my head. That’s how you end up caring, and I didn’t sign up for that.

In the car, it’s dead quiet. She stares out the window, cheek pressed against the glass. I clear my throat.

“So… uh, you like music? Radio?”

Nothing.

“Alright. Guess not.” I flick it on anyway, some old rock station. The sound fills the space but doesn’t change much. She doesn’t hum along, doesn’t tap her foot. Just sits there, holding that backpack like someone might rip it away.

After a while, I try again. “You hungry? I got food at the place. Pizza, cereal, whatever.”

Her head dips the tiniest bit, like a nod, but she doesn’t say a word.

When we finally get to the apartment, I toss my keys in the bowl by the door. She hovers by the entrance like she’s waiting for permission.

“C’mon,” I wave her in. “It’s not much, but it beats a shelter.”

She edges inside, eyes darting around my crappy furniture like she’s scouting for exits.

I pull a frozen pizza out of the freezer and shove it in the oven. While it’s cooking, she sits stiff on the couch, backpack still on her lap.

“You can put that down, y’know,” I tell her. “Nobody’s gonna take it.”

Her fingers tighten on the straps. No response.

When the pizza’s done, I slide two slices onto a plate and set it in front of her. She doesn’t even wait for me to sit down—just digs in, chewing fast, like she’s in some race only she knows about.

I lean on the counter, watching.

“Slow down, kid. You’ll choke.”

She freezes for a second, like she’s been caught stealing, then goes right back to eating.

I try again. “So… what do I call you? You talk, right?”

She flicks her eyes up at me, quick and sharp, then drops them back to her plate. Not a word.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Silent treatment. Fine. Guess I’ll call you Pizza Girl for now.”

I don’t even get a smile.

And that’s when it really sinks in—this isn’t gonna be simple. This isn’t just free rent money. This is a kid who’s been through hell, sitting at my kitchen table like she doesn’t believe food’s really hers.

And like it or not… she’s mine to deal with now.