“I don’t know.”
“Child services?”
Her pencil stopped.
There.
Terry saw it.
“Group home?”
Sky closed the notebook.
“I’m not going back.”
“Where?”
Silence.
“Sky.”
“A place called North Creek.”
Terry knew the name only vaguely.
Two counties away.
State-contracted residential care.
“How long were you there?”
“Seven months.”
“And before that?”
“Foster homes.”
“How many?”
She looked away.
“Enough.”
“Why North Creek?”
“Nobody else wanted me.”
Terry disliked the sentence immediately.
“Who told you that?”
“People.”
“What people?”
“The kind who fill out forms about why you’re difficult.”
Terry leaned back.
Sky looked fourteen then.
Not mysterious.
Not tough.
Just exhausted.
“What happened at North Creek?”
“Nothing.”
“That usually means something.”
She met his eyes.
“I left.”
“You’re reported missing.”
“Probably.”
“We can’t pretend that doesn’t matter.”
Her body became rigid.
“I’m not asking you to hide me.”
“You’re sleeping in our office.”
“I can leave.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“I can be gone in five minutes.”
Terry saw her glance toward the backpack.
Always packed.
Always within reach.
He understood.
Running was no longer something Sky did when danger appeared.
Running was her default condition.
Terry lowered his voice.
“Nobody is throwing you outside.”
She stared.
“But if we’re going to help you, we need the truth.”
Over the next three days, the truth emerged slowly.
Lucy got more than anyone else.
She never sat Sky beneath a bright light and demanded a statement.
She worked.
Balanced accounts.
Sorted receipts.
Asked small questions.
Sometimes Sky answered.
Sometimes she did not.
Luther had been sixteen years older than Sky.
Their mother, Elaine Holloway, had struggled with illness and unstable relationships for years. Luther had effectively become Sky’s safe adult long before anyone officially recognized the role.
He picked her up when he could.
Took her to diners.
Let her sit in the garage while he painted.
Bought her crayons, then markers, then real brushes.
When Elaine died, Sky was four.
Her biological father had already disappeared.
Luther tried to obtain custody.
He believed being her brother should matter.
Family court believed other things mattered too.
His criminal history included minor offenses from his early twenties.
His association with Iron Jaws raised concerns.
His housing situation was considered unstable.
He traveled frequently.
The petition stalled.
Sky remained in foster placement while Luther tried again.
Then, less than a year later, he died in a motorcycle crash.
After that, Sky moved through the system.
Some homes were good.
One foster mother taught her to bake.
One couple made sure she attended school and never raised their voices.
But placements ended.
People moved.
Funding changed.
Families decided they could not handle teenagers, behavior problems, trauma, or whatever words appeared on Sky’s paperwork.
By thirteen, she had learned not to unpack fully.
At North Creek, the problem was not one dramatic act.
It was accumulation.
Privacy treated like defiance.
Belongings confiscated for minor rule violations.
Collective punishment.
Staff shortages.
Children supervised by adults who sometimes appeared more concerned with control than care.
Sky’s sketchbook became the center of one confrontation.
She had filled it with memories of Luther.
His motorcycles.
His helmet.