Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the van pulled into a quiet residential neighborhood.
The houses here were modest but well-kept, their lawns trimmed and flower beds bursting with color. We stopped in front of a small blue house with white shutters. A woman stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching us approach.
“This is your temporary placement,” one of the officers said.
“Mrs. Harper will take care of you until further arrangements can be made.”
Temporary placement? What did that even mean?
Was this some kind of shelter? Foster care? I didn’t understand, but before I could ask more questions, the officers were already stepping out of the van.
“Wait!” I called after them.
“What about—”
“Open the envelope,” the younger officer interrupted gently. He gave me a knowing look before closing the door.
Callie bounced excitedly beside me as Mrs. Harper approached the van.
She was older, probably in her late fifties, with silver-streaked hair tied neatly into a bun. Her eyes softened when she saw Callie, and she smiled warmly.
“Welcome,” she said, helping us gather our things. “Let’s get you settled.”
