Page 28 of When Wildflowers Bloom

I laugh as they eat every single one out of the casserole dish.

The rest of the foods aren’t as popular. The strawberries are too mushy; he spits those out. The smoothie is too cold; he screams after one sip. The bread he flat out refuses.

One out of four is better than nothing.

In the living room, we play Connect 4, his favorite game, about seven hundred times.

Finally bored of playing, we spend the rest of our time together watching a documentary about bugs.

Just before dinner, I walk him home, Miss Alice greeting us at the door.

“Hi, Huck! Please go get ready for dinner,” she says, smiling at him.

He gives me a high-five and a loud, “Bye, Birdie!” before running inside.

“Birdie, if you have a minute,” Miss Alice says, stepping onto the porch next to me, concern etched on her round, rosy face.

“Sure. Everything okay?”

She nods, one of her curly white-blonde hairs falling in her face.

“I don’t know if Huck has mentioned it, but we’ve been meeting with potential families for adoption this summer.”

What?

My mouth opens as I shake my head. “He didn’t tell me.”

“Just as well, none of them want him.” The way she says it is a punch to the gut. Like he’s a used car sitting in a lot with too many miles on the engine. “The behaviors and the food…” She shakes her head with a sad smile. “It’s a lot for someone to take on, you know?”

I nod, even though, no, I don’tknow.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

“You’re around him so much, I just want you to be aware in case you notice his moods changing from it. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep him here.”

She must see the shocked expression on my face because she follows up quickly, “It’s Steve, my husband, he had a heart attack.”

My eyes widen, earning another quick response. “He’s fine, Birdie, nothing major, but he needs calm, quiet. We might be reaching the end of our time as being foster parents.” Then another sad smile.

Miss Alice and Mr. Steve never had kids, I never asked why, but they’ve spent the last twenty-five years taking in foster kids, never officially adopting any of them. I assume they are in their late fifties or early sixties now, and that ship has probably sailed for them.

“I’m sorry to hear about all this, Miss Alice,” I say, trying to register what she’s saying. “Of course, I’ll tell you if I notice anything, but please let me know if I can help. I’m happy to take him more for you, I’d hate to see him go.”

I can’t imagine it. I’ve only known him nine months, but it’s hard for me to picture coming home and not finding him on my doorstep. Who will walk George Strait with me? Who will I make new foods for on Saturdays?

She nods, stepping inside. “I will. And you should know, Birdie—he adores you.”

Hours later, in my own kitchen with my own plate of dinner—wild-caught salmon and sweet potatoes—I can’t stop thinking about what Miss Alice said.None of them want him.I hate it for him. Hatethemfor it. I want to call them all, tell them how great he is even though he’s different, and then wish them good luck finding a better kid.

Even worse, I wish there was something I could do about it. I can’t change Mr. Steve’s heart, nor do I blame them for wanting to have a house without kids. Obviously, I can’t adopt him. I’m unmarried and likely to leave him an orphan again. I couldn’t do that to him.

Like with everything else, I’m helpless.

Holding a mug of chamomile tea, I cozy into the couch with a heavy sigh, and turn on the TV, smiling when I land onThe Office.

As if there’s a hidden camera watching me, my phone dings with a text from Bo.

Bo:What are you doing?

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