A father to the fatherless, defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. God sets the lonely in families.

      —Psalms 68:5–6

      Special thanks to former DHS caseworker Tammy Potter for answering my social services questions, and to my buddy Maggie Price for helping me keep my cop in the realm of reality. Any mistakes or literary license are my own. I would also like to acknowledge the legion of foster and adoptive parents and children who have shared their insight into the painful world of social orphans.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Epilogue

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Prologue

      The worst was happening again. And there was nothing he could do about it.

      Collin Grace was only ten years old but he’d seen it all and then some. One thing he’d seen too much of was social workers. He hated them. The sweet-talking women with their briefcases and straight skirts and fancy fingernails. They always meant trouble.

      Arms stiff, he stood in front of the school counselor’s desk and stared at the office wall. His insides shook so hard he thought he might puke. But he wouldn’t ask to be excused. No way he’d let them know how scared he was. Wouldn’t do no good anyhow.

      Betrayal, painful as a stick in the eye, settled low in his belly. He had thought Mr. James liked him, but the counselor had called the social worker.

      Didn’t matter. Collin wasn’t going to cry. Not like his brother Drew. Stupid kid was fighting and kicking and screaming like he could stop what was happening.

      “Now, Drew.” The social worker tried to soothe the wild brother. Tried to brush his too-long, dark hair out of his furious blue eyes. Drew snarled like a wounded wolf. “Settle down. Everything will be all right.”

      That was a lie. And all three of the brothers knew it. Nothing was ever all right. They’d leave this school and go into foster care again. New people to live with, new school, new town, all of them strange and unfriendly. They’d be cleaned up and fattened up, but after a few months Mama would get them back. Then they’d be living under bridges or with some drugged-out old guy who liked to party with Mama. Then she’d disappear. Collin would take charge. Things would be better for a while. The whole mess would start all over again.

      People should just leave them alone. He could take care of his brothers.

      Drew howled again and slammed his seven-year-old fist into the social worker. “I hate you. Leave me alone!”

      He broke for the door.

      Collin bit the inside of his lip. Drew hadn’t figured out yet that he couldn’t escape.

      A ruckus broke out. The athletic counselor grabbed Drew and held him down in a chair even though he bucked and spat and growled like a mad tomcat. Drew was a wiry little twerp; Collin gave him credit for that. And he had guts. For what good it would do him, he might as well save his energy. Grown-ups would win. They always did.

      People passed the partially open office door and peered around the edge, curious about all the commotion. Collin tried to pretend he couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them. But he could.

      “Poor little things,” one of the teachers murmured. “Living in a burned-out trailer all by themselves. No wonder they’re filthy.”

      Collin swallowed the cry of humiliation rising up in his stomach like the bad oranges he’d eaten from the convenience-store trash. He did the best he could to keep Drew and Ian clean and fed. It wasn’t easy without water or electricity. He’d tried washing them off in the restroom before school, but he guessed he hadn’t done too good a job.

      “Collin.” The fancy-looking social worker had a hand on her stomach where Drew had punched her. “You’ve been through this before. You know it’s for the best. Why don’t you help me get your brothers in the car?”

      Collin didn’t look at her. Instead he focused on his brothers, sick that he couldn’t help them. Sick with dread. Who knew what would happen this time? Somehow he had to find a way to keep them all together. That was the important thing. Together, they could survive.

      Ian, only four, looked so little sitting in a big brown plastic chair against the wall. His scrawny legs stuck straight out and the oversized tennis shoes threatened to fall off. No shoestrings. They stunk, too. Collin could smell them clean over here.

      Like Collin, baby Ian didn’t say a word; he didn’t fight. He just cried. Silent, broken tears streamed down his cheeks and left tracks like a bicycle through mud. Clad in a plaid flannel shirt with only two buttons and a pair of Drew’s tattered jeans pulled together at the belt loops with a piece of electrical cord, his skinny body trembled. Collin could hardly stand that.

      They shouldn’t have come to school today; then none of this would have happened. But they were hungry and he was fresh out of places to look. School lunch was free, all you could eat.

      Seething against an injustice he couldn’t name or defend against, he crossed the room to his brother. He didn’t say a word; just put his hand on Ian’s head. The little one, quivering like a scared puppy, relaxed the tiniest bit. He looked