woman who is now opening the back door of the car. “This is Susan, Dylan’s caseworker.”
“Nice to meet you.”
She flashes me a quick, weary smile before she reaches into the car, presumably to unbuckle Dylan from his car seat. Dylan. I wait for him to appear, having no idea what to expect.
Monica opens the other back door and takes out two battered-looking backpacks. Is that all he has? I keep my expression friendly and interested, trying not to show what I think of his lack of possessions. I remember how, in the course, Monica said foster kids often come to a placement with a few clothes held in a trash bag, sometimes nothing at all.
“These are his things,” she says now, and I take the backpacks.
Susan has helped Dylan out of the car, and she leads him by the hand towards me.
The first thing I think is how small he is—such a slight boy, with a mop of dark hair that hangs in front of his eyes. His head is lowered so I can’t see his face, and he is walking so close to Susan he’s in danger of tripping her up. He’s wearing a dirty T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts that are ripped. Again, indignation burns through me at the sight of those raggedy clothes, a self-righteous fire I do my best to dampen. Now is not the time for those kinds of thoughts. I know that much.
“Hey, Dylan.” Thankfully, my voice comes out friendly and normal, pitched right, without that manic, patronizing cheerfulness that is so easy to adopt with children you don’t know. “I’m Ally. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
No response, but I wasn’t really expecting one.
I open the screen door to the house; it’s still warm for October, and Nick hasn’t changed the screens to storms yet.
Monica flashes me a reassuring smile as she and Susan, still holding Dylan by the hand, walk inside.
Back when we were approved for foster care, we had our home assessed and approved, and yet I feel nervous now, as if something must be out of line, and Monica or Susan will point their finger to the crystal vase on the living room mantelpiece, or the PlayStation in the family room, and say Sorry, that’s against regulations.
They don’t, though. Of course they don’t. Monica murmurs something about what a nice home it is, and I lead them back into the kitchen, with its two steps down to the big family room that we extended about ten years ago. It’s all nice and neat, because I’d just tidied up, but I don’t know whether it’s actually welcoming. There are no toys.
“So, Dylan,” Susan says. “This is where you’re going to be staying for a little while.”
Dylan doesn’t respond; I’m not sure he can even take it in.
“Should I show him his bedroom?” I ask, and then feel guilty for talking about him like he’s not there. Why does this feel so fraught?
“Maybe in a few minutes,” Susan says. “Perhaps I’ll show Dylan outside while Monica briefs you on the situation?” She gives Monica a significant look, and she nods.
“Oh, okay. Sure.” I practically leap to the French windows. “I’ll just unlock them,” I mutter, fumbling with the key and finally opening the doors. I step aside as Susan takes Dylan out onto the deck. It’s late afternoon, the sunlight like liquid gold, and the air still holds the warmth of a forgotten summer.
I watch them for a moment, noting how Susan keeps up a steady, cheerful patter while Dylan remains silent and unresisting, almost like a little zombie as they walk around our fenced-in yard, a few fallen leaves caught in the grass like discarded jewels—crimson, ochre, gold.
I turn to Monica. “Can I get you a coffee, or…?”
“I’m fine,” she says easily. She gestures to the table by the windows. “Why don’t we sit down and I can get you up to speed?”
“All right.” I feel like a student about to take an exam. Why am I so nervous? I wanted to do this. “So, Dylan,” I say. “He seems nice.” I bite my lip at that inanity. “Quiet.”
“Yes, he’s what is known as selectively mute.” I blink. “He can speak,” Monica explains, “but he often chooses not to.”
“I see.”
“He was removed from his mother’s care this afternoon, after an onlooker called DCF when she lost her temper with him in public.”
Lost her temper? Is that code for being abusive? I nod, not sure what to say, trying to