"Meet your new foster father," she says.
The man smiles again as he extends his left hand for Peter to shake. Peter takes it, and the man's big hand swallows his entirely. But Peter does his best to match his firm grip.
"Hi Peter," he says. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Steven Westcott. But most people just call me Skip."
Peter tries very hard to feel something about Skip Westcott as he follows him out of the ER and to a waiting car—sensible sedan, a few years old but meticulously clean—but as soon as the social worker told him he wasn't going to jail the coursing adrenaline that has been keeping him upright was flushed away by a wave of exhaustion. His hand is throbbing now (they didn't give him any painkillers: he saw the nurse mark "high risk" somewhere on his chart when she thought he wasn't watching, so he assumes that has something to do with it), and even with the addition of meatloaf, his stomach is still growling. He takes his place in the front seat while Skip throws his duffel bag into the trunk and then concentrates all of his energy on not letting his eyes slip closed.
But beyond this faint sense that he should remain alert, Peter has nothing. Skip could be a lump of human-shaped putty for all that Peter knows or cares about him.
The social worker might have called Skip his foster father, but Peter knows better. Parents, families, homes… these are things of the past. There are only places to stay, now. And—when he can—people to help.
Skip gets into the car beside him, starts it, and pulls out of the parking lot. It's late at night, but Peter recognizes this only when he sees how empty the streets are.
He realizes he is being rude. That he's probably acting exactly like someone would expect a juvenile delinquent who just got kicked out of a home for fighting to act. Surly. Withdrawn.
He clenches his hand shut, uses the pain to pull his focus.
"Um," he says. "Mr. Westcott?"
"Skip," says Skip.
"Okay. Skip. Um, I don't know if it makes a difference, but I didn't try to, you know, shank anybody. Just in case you were wondering."
Skip doesn't respond for a second. Long enough that Peter's insides start to squirm more violently, and not just with hunger now. Suddenly he does feel something, and that something is a low sense of foreboding. He remembers what Felipe said about things being shitty no matter what you do, and he wonders, for the first time, where Skip is taking him.
It can't be worse than the halfway house.
Can it?
But when Skip does answer, Peter is surprised once again.
"I believe you," Skip says.
"I—you do?"
Skip nods.
"Even though—? I mean, there was a knife. I don't want to lie about it, there was. And it was mine. It was definitely mine. I just, I don't want you to think I'm dangerous or something. And I'm not lying, I just—"
Now Skip smiles softly, taking his eyes off the road for just a second to raise his eyebrow at Peter.
"Peter," he says, "didn't I just say I believed you?"
Peter closes his mouth. Frowns.
Skip chuckles and returns his attention to the road.
"You hungry?"
"I'm…"
Peter wants to say that he is starving. Maybe literally. But as soon as he thinks it, his mouth feels like it is filled with glue. He can't form the words.
Out of this bitter stickiness and into his head, a voice rises.
(He's testing you,) it says. Like a whisper, but loud nonetheless. (He's looking for your weaknesses. Don't give them to him.)
It's not Uncle Ben's voice. It's not Felipe's. It does not, in fact, belong to anyone Peter knows. He has a vision of a ghoul sitting on his shoulder and immediately wants to shake himself.
Instead he closes his mouth and obeys it.
Peter shrugs.
"I don't want to establish a bad precedent," says Skip, "but just about the only thing open at this time of night is McDonald's. You have any objection to highly-processed, ethically-questionable meat?"
The last fast food Peter ate was that pizza, sitting on the curb, telling Ned about the Arlingtons and feeling sorry for himself in a way he can hardly believe just three months later. Tonight, a cheeseburger sounds like something he believed in when he was a kid but now knows to be false, like the tooth fairy, or Santa Claus.
And yet the next thing he knows, there is one sitting in his lap. It is in a grease-stained paper bag. In that bag there is also a sleeve of french fries the size of Peter's head, and in the cup holder beside him there is a large Coke, dripping with condensation.
Watching Skip out of the corner of his eye, Peter takes a fry out of the bag and bites into it. It is greasy and salty and so hot it almost burns Peter's mouth, and as soon as it touches his tongue a fat tear rolls out of the corner of Peter's eye.
He turns his head sharply, pretends to look out the window. He's sure Skip saw (sees , because the tears won't stop once they've started, though at least they are silent), but Skip says nothing. He just drives.
"We'll have to be quiet going in," says Skip. "I have two others at the moment. Twin girls. They're seven. I didn't have a chance to tell them you'd be coming, but they should be asleep anyway, so…"
Peter nods and Skip unlocks the door. Full—really, truly full, for the first time in months—of fries and pop and cheeseburger, Peter is starting to feel floaty and distant, and even though he hears the words Skip is saying they are getting stuck in whatever part of his brain translates them into meaning. It's like being in a dream. He just accepts whatever's put in front of him without question.