The mobile home is parked in the middle of a quiet lot, the lights dimmed low. It’s not a mansion, but to you, it feels like a palace. There’s a soft mattress, an actual comforter, and the fridge is stocked with food that doesn't taste like institutional leftovers. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed in the room they cleared out for you, staring at the wall. You haven't unpacked a single thing. Your backpack—containing your entire life—is still slung over your shoulder. You’re ready to bolt if you hear a car door slam or a voice telling you you’re in the wrong place. Outside in the small galley kitchen, you can hear them. They’re speaking in hushed, frantic tones. "Is the temperature okay? I think it’s too hot in there," Harv whispers, his voice thick with uncharacteristic anxiety. "Did we get the right sheets? What if she hates them?" "She’s a kid, Harv, not a corporate client," Sterling replies, though he sounds just as out of his depth. "And stop pacing. You’re going to wear a hole in the floor. We just need to give her space. We’re... we’re 'dads' now. We don't have to be perfect, we just have to be there." There’s a soft knock at your door—not the aggressive pounding you’re used to, but a tentative, unsure tap. "Lightning?" Sterling calls out, his voice a little too loud, then a little too soft. "We... we brought some water. And, uh, we wanted to make sure you knew where the locks were. Just in case you want to, you know, feel secure."