Breakfast, the day after

The memory of yesterday emerges slowly as you wake up: a blur that's gonna slowly sharpen over the days and months to come. Trees. The worker's car. The smell of stale McDonalds. How she asked you what you wanted: nuggets or a burger.

You don't remember that you ate. You do remember the smear of dry barbeque sauce on the car seat next to you. You do remember that she talked about where you were headed, but not the names she gave you. Pretty names, easy names that flew out of your head as soon as she uttered them.

The names don't matter. You know what they want to be called, how they'll want to be spoken to. Yes ma'am. Of course. No thank you. Please, please, please. Everyone wants good manners, that's what Momma always told you.

You have been pulled once before: a memory of cacophony and tears and shouts. Another worker's car. Another pretty house. Green shag carpet, and a lady who spanked you when you wet the bed, but sang nursery rhymes and fed you noodle soup when you had a fever and called you sweetheart. And then you went home, after a blur of weeks, or maybe months, or maybe you'd had a year there. You could never tell.

She also made you have good manners. At her house, you learned not to ask for what you wanted. The good ones don't ask. The good ones are grateful for what they get. The good ones say thank you more often than please. The good ones keep a hand on the handle of the grocery cart and never touch what's on the shelves. Don't even look too hard. The good ones help out, set the table and fold the wash and keep the toys off the floor.

You're exhausted already. The sun peeks through the shutters, and you wonder when you're supposed to get up. A savory smell weaves through your closed door. Maybe sausage. You're not hungry. You're never hungry. You hear a gentle knock, followed by,

"You hungry? You can come on down for breakfast. No pressure though. There'll be a plate for you whenever you're ready."

"Thank you, ma'am," you call back. There's a soft chuckle.

"Please call me Abby," she says. "You decent? We could talk face to face. Or not. Whenever you're ready."

You'll call her ma'am no matter what she says because sweet lady women always want to be called ma'am. You know that. You've learned that a thousand hard ways. They tell you to call them by name, but you know the truth: they want to feel powerful so they can show you grace. They want to feel powerful so they can be generous, and you can be thankful, and they can feel good. Ma'am she shall be, from the day you come to the day you leave.

You hope you get to leave.

"Uh, yeah, sure. Okay."

The door creaks open. She's got a round face, curls pulled to a neat bun. An apron, green and flour-streaked. The last lady cooked too, but wasn't a baker.

"How'd you sleep?"

"Good."

"Glad to hear. A lot of us don't sleep so good when we're not home. Bad dreams, uncomfortable bed, scratchy sheets...any problems you have though, we can make better. We can even get you new sheets today. Whatever you need."

"Um, no, that's okay. The sheets are good."

"Okay. Now, your worker wasn't very clear about how long you're gonna be here, but...generally the court moves slowly. A few weeks at least, that's what we guess. So we can go to the store today and get you some stuff to decorate your room. Does that sound good?"

"Um, works for me. You don't have to, though. Don't really need much."

"Not about need," Abby says sternly. "For the next few weeks at least, these walls are yours, the bed and floor and closet and dresser - all of them are yours, so they should feel as though they're yours. We won't go crazy - you'll get a hundred dollars to spend on stuff for your room, but you get to choose whatever you want."

A HUNDRED DOLLARS. Your jaw drops. Not a word comes out. Momma would say that's rude, but there's no response for that.

Abby, she laughs. Just a small laugh. Not at you. "Close your mouth, honey," she says. "We let everyone who comes through here have that same amount to shop. Enough for some decor and some new sheets, should you want them. Or a soft fuzzy blanket; you a fan of those? Now don't worry about other stuff - toothpaste and shampoo and deodorant and all that. That's separate. We buy all of that, but you can choose what you want when we go shop, okay?"

"Okay. Um, thank you."

Abby beams at you. "Eager to see what you choose," she says. "Good way to get to know a person, see what sort of stuff they're drawn to. Now, how about breakfast? There's pancakes and sausage and syrup and jam. Oh and some fresh-squeezed oranges. You a fan of any of that?"

Your stomach growls. You try to clamp down somehow, muffle the sound, but Abby doesn't say a word, just holds herself steady and offers you a moment to answer.

"No thank you, ma'am."

She nods as though she understands what you won't tell her. "Plate'll be there whenever you're ready," she repeats. "Just open up the oven. There's a drawer full of forks labeled, "forks" and most of the cups are on open shelves. Some of us prefer to eat by ourselves when we're new to a place, and that's a-okay."

Your eyes narrow. We? Who's we?

She meets your gaze at a level. "Yeah," she says as though you've asked her out loud. "Seven homes. Four years. Went home and bounced back to the system a whole lot. Sucky way to spend your early years, huh?"

You shrug. "Guess so, ma'am."

Her tone softens.

"Hey," she says. "Hear me out. You're a good, sweet person. You don't have to prove yourself here. And for the love of all that's holy - call me Abby."

You nod. Don't trust yourself to say a word. Abby nods at you once more, then closes your door as gentle as she came. Your stomach growls once more - more of a roar, really. You roll out of bed and follow her down. Your mouth waters.