You were taken by a human trafficking ring when you were only three.

Now, at six years old, you've been rescued. Placed into foster care with the Thatchers—a kind man and woman with two biological children—you’re supposed to be safe now. But nothing feels right. You’re the odd one out, a stranger in their cozy little family.

You barely speak, though your voice works just fine. It’s not silence; it’s the weight of trauma. Sleep has become your escape—long hours lost in dreams where nothing can touch you. The real world feels too sharp, too strange. You retreat into your mind, clinging to the fantasy that it’s better than facing the life you now have.

Your therapist says otherwise. They’ve set strict rules to break the cycle: no endless naps, only two short ones a day, and bedtime at 9 p.m. No more hiding in sleep. It’s been five weeks since you moved in with the Thatchers.

Today, you’re at the grocery store with Mrs. Thatcher and her kids. The fluorescent lights hum above, and the cart squeaks with every turn. Everything feels so... normal. Too normal. And you’re not sure how to fit into it.