Your mother answers softly, “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
By nightfall, the hospital has become a fortress.
Vaughn stations one guard by the pediatric unit, another near the back entrance. Elena arrives in a navy suit and listens to Addie’s statement with the expression of a woman carving names into memory. Child protective services sends a specialist named Ruth Adler, who does not speak to Addie like a form in need of completion. She speaks to her like a witness who survived the fire and still carries its heat.
You are asked twice why you are still here.
The first time, by a social worker who means well.
The second time, by yourself.
The answer is inconvenient. You are here because leaving feels like moral vandalism. You are here because the image of the backpack will not release your throat. You are here because a girl you met five hours ago looked at you like a bridge and you are suddenly terrified of collapsing.
At nine that night, Ruth lets you sit in when she explains the next steps to Addie.
No sugarcoating. Temporary protective custody. Emergency placement. Investigation. Interviews. Court orders. A long road with more adults deciding things than children should ever have to endure.
Addie sits on the hospital bed, toes bandaged, shoulders rigid. “Can I stay with Lily?”
“Tonight, yes,” Ruth says. “After that, we’ll try to keep you together.”
“Try?”
Ruth does not lie. “I can’t promise outcomes I don’t control.
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