August 22. Beginning.

I have yet to figure out which is more haunting: a four-year-old talking about case workers matter of factly, or a terrified eleven-year-old hearing the words case worker for the first time.

Tonight I experienced the latter as T tried to keep his composure as he asked me how long he'd be there. Used to the children who've been through this before, I responded that he'd have to ask his case worker. He had no idea who that was. He had no pajamas when I tried to divert him with changing his clothes, and no toothbrush to distract him either. His bed was a bare plastic mattress and the white-board on his door simply said Ready. Trying to make him as comfortable as possible, I got him a pencil box-turned-toothbrush holder and a trial size Crest and let him pick out Spongebob sheets and a racecar blanket.

"I didn't know I was coming here," he admits, though I knew that long before. I told him most of the kids don't know it. Trying to change the subject, I asked about his siblings- a safe subject usually because parents sure aren't. He choked out an answer as tears streamed down his face, "they live with other people in my family," as he turned his back to me to wipe his cheek. I wrote his name on the door with a dry-erase and told him snack would be waiting once he changed into pajamas. "I know you're scared, T, but you have to trust that right now this is the best place you can be and that you're very safe here."

Knowing he wasn't any less upset, I sent the male staff to T's room to see if he could work his touch. He took him some nice new gym shorts and a red tee and gave him a pep talk. T came out soon to have his snack, where a girl made fun of his pink wallet he took from his pants before tossing them in the laundry. She kept quiet after the look I gave her as I asked him what grade he's going to be in- fifth- hopeful that this subject wouldn't draw out more tears. I was wrong though, as he cried that he didn't know if he'd be starting school on Monday. I told him I'm sure he will, but wasn't sure where. I told him that while I didn't have all the answers, he'd be able to talk to someone very soon who would. He settled down at this but was obviously scared. Shaking as he finished his snack, the frail boy fought off the tears as he walked to his new room.

The boy, whose face told me he's been forced to grow up way too fast, picked out a book and turned off the light and, like so many of these children week after week, left an imprint on my hear that won't soon fade.