Neither Chrys nor I can move. Diane glares at us with fire in her eyes. For such a self-proclaimed religious woman, she sure has the Devil in her.

"You - got - sus-pen-ded?" she says, stepping into the room. Her eyes go to Chrys. "And - you - knew - about it?" She stops in front of us.

Chrys and I can't say a word.

"What were you suspended for, huh? Showing up drunk?"

"I've never drank. That was Agatha."

"Right." She turns to Chrys. "And what were you doing? About to go into my kitchen?"

Chrys shakes her head in fright. "N-No."

"You knew she got suspended, and you didn't say anything?"

"Because family doesn't turn on each other," I say.

Diane turns to me. It blurted out of my mouth without me thinking about it. I don't know where it came from. "What do you know about family? If you had one, you wouldn't be here."

Her statement hits me hard, but it shouldn't. I don't know much about family, but I do know it's not supposed to be like this. But the truth makes my heart sink. I don't have a family. I don't have anyone. I'm alone. I'm alone. I'm alone.

Diane silences. It feels like the calm before the hurricane. Before disaster strikes. I don't like it. It's frightening. Impending doom hangs in the air. I don't know what's coming, and I'm sure Chrys doesn't, either.

I hate this suspense. I hate it so much.

Hit me already. Slap me across the face again. I don't care. I can take it.

Diane looks at me and says, "I'll deal with you later." She lunges at Chrys. "Come here!" She sweeps her up and throws her onto the couch.

"Hey. Stop," I yell, moving forward as Chrys screams.

"You stop right there," Diane shouts at me. "Go to your room, or you're next."

My breathing speeds up as she attacks Chrys, who kicks and shrieks. But I stand here, doing nothing.

"Go!"

I run to the hall for cover and watch from the archway, trying to figure out how to stop this. I can't. I'm nothing.

"Stop! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Chrys cries out.

"Shut up," Diane says and continues to beat her.

My legs wobble.

I'm gonna fall over.

I cling to the arch.

My head feels like it's about to roll off my shoulders.

I can't look at this.

I rush to my room and close the door behind me. I lean back on it for support, but my breathing's anxious.

I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.

But I do.

Chrys needs my help. I have to save her, but I can't. The things Diane will do to me. I don't think I can bear it. Within these past eight months, I never realized how attached I'd gotten to Chrys. She's not my sister, nor will she ever be, but she's too young for this. I've grown fond of her so much. She's adorable and not 'cause of her age.

Tears fall down my face. It's the first time I've broken down and cried in weeks.

I'm weak. I'm hopeless. I'm worthless. I should be out there, protecting Chrys, not hiding, listening to her scream and beg for mercy.

How could I do this to her, even if she isn't my family? It's my fault this is happening to her. It's all my fault. I'm a coward. I'm weak. I'm nothing.

She doesn't deserve to go through what I did. That abusive foster home I was in when I was five scarred me. She shouldn't have to live my life.

I may not be able to do anything on my own, but I can do something else to help Chrys—to help us all. I take out my phone and Google the number for social services. My fingers twitch and type the wrong letters. I grunt in frustration and put in the search. I dial the digits. All I have to do is press the green button to call.

My thumb hovers over it.

Press it.

Press it!

Curt and Diane can fool anyone. If they can fool Mrs. Browne and the adoption counselor, they can fool social services. If they find out I called, they'll... Who knows what they'll do to me?

I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and throw my phone at the wall. My case pops off in two pieces.

Getting a taste of destruction, I push over some of my boxes, kick at others, and fling my jackets around the room. A textbook shatters the window, and shards scatter on the floor. One swing is so forceful that I knock myself over. My elbow slams on the ground and gets a stinging rug burn. The carpeting's mustiness fills my nose. I lay, crying, adding to it.

That's it. My hope is gone. I don't see how this could get better. But I don't know how this could get worse. This is rock bottom, and this is where I'm meant to stay.

* * *

Two hours must've gone by. That or an eternity. In the dark and freezing cold, I scratch my nail at a spot on my arm. The scab's between my wrist and under-elbow. But it turns out it's not a scab at all.

A small piece of glass comes out of my skin and sparkles with blood.

I flick it and roll to face the broken window. Anyone can come in. Anyone can kidnap me. But then again, if no one wants me in their family, why would a person want to kidnap me? I'd just be a burden and another mouth to feed.

My curtains blow with the wind, and the coolness lands on my face. The moonlight glistens off the shards on the floor, creating little stars on my walls and ceiling.

Stars.

Two above me are closer to each other than all the others. The one on the right is smaller than its partner on the left, giving me an idea.

There's still a chance. It may be my last chance.

I swallow, push my pride to the side, and get off the floor. My foot catches on a box like a sign that I shouldn't be doing what I'm doing. But I don't care. I want to see if this works—as foolish as it is—for my younger, hopeful self.

I move my curtains and kneel in front of my window, careful not to cut myself. The moon is pale against the starless navy sky. So much for that, I guess.

The trees on the other side aren't as scary as they seem with the curtains open. The wind whistles her eerie song. The neighbor's dog barks, and the neighbor across the street yells for it to be quiet. "Tell your mutt to quit yapping!"—to be exact.

Everything goes quiet. I look back up at the sky. Something shines bright behind a shifting cloud. At first, I think it's the moon. When the mist moves, there's a massive star. It seems close. It's as if a spotlight shines on me.

I know this is stupid, but there it is, next to the beautiful diamond. Compared to the big one, it's a pinpoint, but it's still larger than any other star I've seen.

Every ounce of me tells me this is beyond insanity. I know it in my mind. But my heart feels otherwise.

I choose the second star to the right instead of the enormous one because it looks insignificant. I'm insignificant, too. We have that in common.

I sense that making a wish is more powerful when said aloud, so that's what I do.

"I'm not sure how this works," I whisper. "I know this is dumb and probably won't work at all, but... I believe... things may be different tonight. So," I hold back my sorrowful tears as best I can, "I wish..." I choke on a sob. "I wish for a family." The rivers run down my face. "I wish for a place to call home—damn it," I curse at myself for crying. I don't think I've said this stuff out loud before. This makes it real. It makes it true. I am all alone.

"I don't want to be alone." I lift my head to the star, but both are gone—hidden behind another cloud. Even they can't stand me. Even they leave me abandoned.

My reflection in a fogged-up window pane fragment comes into focus. My eyes are red, and my face is wet. I resist the urge to punch the glass, and I yank the curtains together.

* * *

I slept on the hard floor. It's where I thought I deserved to sleep. I didn't bother putting on pajamas, taking off my makeup, or tying my hair into braids. I didn't bother doing anything last night. But my brain thought it, of all nights, was the best time for a dream. A weird one like those from my childhood. I don't remember much, but I try to make sense of it. Remnants of it float in my head. Flashes of purple light cloud my eyes, so I blink through.

Who's Elsa? Anna?

Why was there a talking snowman?

How does my brain come up with this stuff?

There was also a man with dark hair. I can't recall his face. He wore black. I was in purple, as usual. I was at peace, as unusual.

The sky was blue. Other people worked and scurried about their business. I remember a rocking sensation in my dream, but I'm not sure what it was. I still feel like I'm swaying. All I can think of is a boat, but the place was too big. It could've been a ship.

I've been watching too many pirate movies.

Dreading to go, I enter the living room around seven. The others are on the couch. Max and Chrys play checkers again.

I don't want to look at her. I've failed her. I could've helped, but I didn't.

Agatha looks up from her phone and acknowledges me with a "Yo."

I gaze at Chrys. Her bottom lip's swollen, among other things.

I can't take this anymore. We pretend things like this don't happen. Someone needs to speak up. "How can you guys be so quiet?"

"What are you talking about?" Agatha says.

"Diane attacked Chrys yesterday, and we're not going to do something about it?" I sound like I'm trying to rally them up for battle, which is, going up against Diane.

"Diane's attacked all of us at some point. More than once." She goes back to her phone and moves her hair over to one shoulder, exposing a scar on her jaw from when Diane slapped her with a ring on.

"But we can't let that go on. It's child abuse."

She looks at me. "What can we do?"

"Oh, I don't know. Call social services? The system? The police?"

"Curt and Diane can fool—"

"Anyone. Yeah, I know. But we have to try. Look at her." I gesture at Chrys. "What's she supposed to say to her teacher today? She has a black eye. There are scratches on her chest."

Agatha turns to Chrys, taking in my observations. When she's finished, she says, "She can say she fell down the stairs. Tell your teacher you fell down the stairs, Crystal."

"No," I shout. "You don't get a black eye from falling down the stairs."

"You could if you hit the top of the railing on the way down."

"And the scratches?"

"A cat. Her teacher doesn't need to know we don't have one." Agatha is an idiot. A cat? Let's be a little realistic here. A lioness trapped inside the body of a human attacked Chrys. That sounds worse. It must be from my weird dream and uncomfortable sleeping surface. My head does feel different compared to yesterday and the day before that and the day before that, and so on. It's like another person is banging on the insides of my brain, begging to be let out.

Stay in. Stay in there. I don't need you, whoever you are. I'm good. I'm fine.

"That's ridiculous," Max says, shooting her a look. "Why would her own cat attack her?"

"Why would her own foster mother attack her?" I say, arms crossed.

"Because Diane's crazy," he says. "Curt, too."

"Can I stay here?" Chrys asks.

Agatha and I speak in unison; I agree, and she disagrees.

"What do you mean, 'No?'" I ask her.

"What do you mean, 'Yes?'"

"I'm staying here, anyway. I can look after her."

Agatha wears a mischievous grin. "They will be so pissed if she stays. More so when they find out it was your idea."

"Then we won't stay here. I'll take her somewhere else."

A car door shuts outside. It's only one, so it can't be Curt and Diane just yet. It must be the neighbor.

"A beat-up child?" Agatha says, apprehensive but somewhat amused. "You're still going to have to explain to people when they ask questions and give you looks."

She's right. People will ask questions. They'll stare at us. But Chrys needs to be checked out. We should make sure her wounds aren't too bad.

"Not if I take her to the doctor," I say, still unsure.

"And what are you going to say?" Agatha leans forward, appearing to enjoy this.

"I'll have the drive to think about that, thanks."

The doorbell rings.

I seriously hate this game and those chimes.

"Not it," Agatha shouts after cringing, connecting her finger to her nose.

"Not it," Max and Chrys say in unison, touching their noses.

"It's you again," Agatha says, dropping her arm.

"I've noticed." I grimace, and she gives it back to me.

I open the door to find a young boy, maybe around the age of twelve. Is he a new addition to the foster home? I feel bad if he is.

He has dark brown hair, like Max's, and his bangs are combed to the side. He wears a black coat and a striped red and white scarf. If he had a pair of round glasses and a lightning scar on his forehead, I might have taken him for Harry Potter.

The boy seems surprised to see me—for whatever reason—and remains silent while I wait for him to explain who he is and why he's here.

I ask, "Yes?"

"I've finally found you," he says with a smile.

Finally found me? Is this the kid Mama told me about? He matches her description. Who the hell is he?

"Can... I help you?"

"No, but I was hoping to help you. I'm Henry—Henry Mills. I'm here to bring you home."