The cold woman with soft eyes opens the car door for me. My feet land on the ground with a thud because they don't reach until I scoot. She drags me by the arm and struggles, because while I may be thin like my father, and while I haven't had much to eat in the last three days, I would rather die than trust this same woman to pick a home for me that wasn't as terrible as the last. She succeeds in getting me to the doorstep, and I topple over once she lets go. She says sorry, but she has no reason to be apologetic. I like this spot. I'd like to stay here, on this ugly wooden porch floor, but I know the woman wouldn't let me do that. She rings the doorbell, yanks me up from the collar of my faded Pokémon shirt, and an even stranger looking woman answers the door. I start my analysis from the top. This woman has unwashed hair that reflects the sun hotly. Her eyes are blank. There are wrinkles around them and dark semi-circles underneath. Her nose is red at the end and is visibly runny. She wipes at it quickly and smiles weakly. Her lips are cracked and her teeth are crooked and yellow. Her shoulders are hunched forward. She looks underweight and gray, even though she's only an estimated thirty to thirty-five years old. The rest didn't matter, because I knew. This woman would be as bad as the last.
"Oh hello, you're a few early!" She says too excitedly.
"Elvis, this is Mrs. Robinson," I'm short for my age, but not short enough to hide behind the social worker's legs. So instead I stumble forward and look up at the woman with evil eyes.
"He's a little shy, but he'll come around." She drones on about papers and reassurances and legal things, but I zone out fairly quickly. I try to hope a little, that my analysis was way off and that this woman was mother-material, but it doesn't work and Instead I peek into the house behind the woman. I don't see much, because she's still inside and leaning against the door frame. But I see it's quiet and too dark. My stomach lurches at the darkness. The scene is still until there is movement near what I assume is the living room. Another boy. A boy, taller than me, peeking above the sofa. He ducks down as soon as he notices me looking, and I smile lightly. A brother. This would be the first time. I zone back into the conversation just as the social worker farwells both the woman and I. She feigns an inviting smirk at me as the social worker leaves. Nothing good lasts.
