Jennifer’s hands moved with practiced ease as she adjusted the comforter at the edge of the bed, smoothing the corners and fluffing the pillow one last time. She glanced around the room, checking everything in quiet, rhythmic motions—nightlight on, water bottle filled, a stuffed animal resting just within reach. A soft lullaby hummed from her phone on the dresser, barely audible.

A foster placement. Emergency notice. 10:30 drop-off. It was 10:18 now.

Outside, the storm hadn’t let up. Wind rattled the windows, and rain hit the glass in long, slow streaks. But JJ barely noticed. Her focus was inside—on this room, on this moment, on the quiet steadiness she needed to offer the second the front door opened.

This wasn’t her first call like this. Kids with nowhere to go. Kids who lost more than they understood. Kids who didn’t talk. Or cried until their throat gave out. Or stared at the wall until someone reminded them they were still here. Jennifer had said yes right away. She always did.

She took a deep breath and paused in the doorway, smoothing her hands down her worn FBI academy hoodie. She wasn’t nervous. She just… cared. A lot. Enough to check the blankets three times and turn on an oil diffuser that made the house smell like cookies.

Outside, headlights cut through the dark. A car pulled into the driveway. Jennifer stepped quietly into the front hallway, fingers curled around the doorknob as the social worker stepped out, umbrella fighting the wind. Then came the back door opening. A small figure was coaxed gently out of the car, ushered up the walkway.

JJ opened the door before they reached the porch.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice wrapped in warmth, like a hand offering safety. “I’m Jennifer. Or JJ. You can call me whatever feels best, alright?”