Mr. Murray’s knock was slow, gentle. “Girls, can you come downstairs? We have to talk.”

  At least, that's what I thought he said. All I heard was the hard thumb of the other shoe finally dropping, faster than a guillotine.

  This is what I got for letting my guard down.

  Something in his tone told me it was bad even before we got to the living room. I wish the social worker had been a surprise.

  “I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Murray was sobbing, snot running down her face, even as she blew her nose in the crumple tissue in her fist. “We can’t make it work.”

  They explained it so many times, I could recite the rehearsed speech. It wasn’t even complicated. Insulin was insanely expensive and they couldn’t afford to adopt me anymore.They didn’t say it but I understood.

  Maybe they could love me, before everything. But even if I wasn’t a freak, their actual daughter had to come first. I had to give them credit for finding an excuse I couldn’t even argue with.

  “But,” Lucy stammered, “-that’s what insurance is for.”

  “It’s not enough.” Mr. Murray sighed like he was lifting something heavy before finally looking at me. “God, Molly-Bear...” I made a face at the nickname and he swallowed. “Molly, we just–”

  “I’ll go get packed.” I stood nodding.

  Lucy protested and Mrs. Murray sputtered something unintelligible through her tissue, but I was already heading back up the stairs.

  The laugh that escaped me was cold as I set to loading the new backpack I hadn’t even wanted. Hopefully the girls wouldn’t steal my sketch book or paints, they were pretty nice. Maybe Lucy could hold them for me. The Murrays had given me far more than I could fit in the bag, anyway.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Molly…” Lucy’s voice broke my concentration. “It’s all my fault.”

  She was leaning in my doorway… Nope, not my doorway, smearing her glasses as she tried to wipe away the tears. “It’s all my fault.”

  “You’re just sick.” I shrugged and looked around. “Can you grab a trash bag?”

  Lucy’s puffy face stretched in confusion.

  “The other girls always steal backpacks. I just want to keep the good stuff in something else,” I elaborate.

  My best friend’s face melted into an even brighter shade of red, like someone had poured fire in her veins. “You want to go back.”

  I shrugged again. “I just knew it was coming.”

  “Oh, whatever!” Lucy stormed in, jamming the point of her finger into my face “You’ve been acting weird since the hospital and they never even brought it up.”

  “And now they don’t have to.” I stacked my water color pens between pairs of pants and underwear. Would that be enough to stop the other girls from snooping? “I can’t even ask because of the social worker.”

  No matter the reason, the result was the same. The Murrays had to protect their daughter.

  “Molly, stop!” Lucy grabbed the pile and flung it across the room. It crashed into my lamp, smashing it to the ground. Too bad, the lamp was weird but I liked it. Not that it mattered. I couldn’t have taken it with me.

  I sighed and shook my head. “Now I need two trash bags.”

  Lucy looked at the remnant of my lamp. Then me. Then the lamp. Her parents stormed up the stairs, the social worker close behind.

  “What happened?”

  “You girls okay?”

  “We heard a crash.”

  They were talking over each other, making it impossible to figure out who said what.

  “It’s all fine,” Lucy snapped, finally looking away. “I’ll go get the trash bags.”

  My best friend stormed out, snatching the big Welcome Home, Sister banner off my wall.