Three days before the storm, Rafi sat in the backseat of a county van, watching the trees blur into a green smear outside the window. His backpack—more of a duffel, really—was stuffed beneath his legs. Half-zipped. Like he hadn't decided whether he was staying or running.
The caseworker, Ms. Tenley, drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror like he was about to explode. Or cry. Or vanish.
He didn't do any of those things.
"You don't have to talk if you don't want to," she said eventually. "But Camp Grit's a good place. Out in the mountains. Other kids your age. Fresh air, structure. It'll help you... breathe a little."
Rafi didn't respond. He didn't care about structure or air or other kids. He'd only just started unpacking at the last foster house before they'd told him he couldn't stay. Too many kids already. Not enough beds. Not his fault, not theirs. Just the system being the system.
This would be the fourth place in six months.
Maybe fifth, depending on how you count sleeping on a stranger's couch for a week.
"You used to do Scouts, right?" Ms. Tenley asked, as the road curved tighter and the trees got taller. "So the wilderness thing won't be totally new to you."
He gave a short nod. "I guess."
He had done Scouts. Once. With his dad. They'd gone camping every fall, built fires, made dumb jokes about bears, told ghost stories in whisper-shouts. That version of his life—the "before"—felt like a movie someone else had lived.
"It's only temporary," she added. "They're just placing you at Camp Grit until a more permanent home opens up. Should be a couple weeks."
A couple weeks. That meant nothing. Time bent weird when you were always waiting for a phone call that never came. Always ready to pack a bag again.
Still, something about "Camp Grit" stuck in his brain. The name sounded like sand in your teeth. Like something sharp. Hard. A place where you either held on or got swallowed up.
When they pulled into the camp, it didn't look like much. A wooden sign with fading letters. A gravel lot. A line of tents and cabins along the edge of a forest that looked way too quiet.
A tall guy in muddy boots came out of the main lodge, gave a lazy wave, and said, "You must be Rafi."
Ms. Tenley opened the back door. "You'll be okay," she told him, not quite meeting his eyes.
Rafi grabbed his bag and stepped out into the pine-scented air. He kept his head high, his eyes forward.
He didn't wave goodbye.