You spend your minutes absently picking at your fingers, listening to everything, every little word, memorizing the plot line by line.

Too much to handle. Not right for our family at the moment. Of course he's a sweet boy, but.

But.

But.

You spend your hours with your eyes lost to the elusive black oblivion of the pink afternoon just beyond the ever-changing windows from ever-changing coops. It is the same sky from every mid-rise apartment in Manhattan. Because it's out there. Part of you hopes that one day the sky will change. That the few glittering stars that overpower the blinding lights of the city will grow the slightest bit dimmer. That the air itself will not feel so fit to carry you away.

You spend your weeks being tossed about like a fickle child's least favorite toy, from home to home, from couple to couple, from concrete shell to concrete shell.

Sorry. "Families". That's what you should call them. That's what they call them. That's what the couples call themselves, or worse yet, that's what they call you.

You've spent your fifteen years alone. A constant, meaningless cycle of being dragged from the streets and stumbling back out again. Once the system found you, you knew you'd be screwed. Existence dumbed down to a number and a mopey puss. Chained up like a dog until they decided you're too old to be played with anymore.

Sorry. "Safe". That's what they call that, too.

You don't know family. You don't care for it. You barely remember your own dad, a brutal and broken old man who gave all of his two damns left to give to you before finally kicking the bucket. These couples? Facades. Faces. Paintings. Paintings so lovely, paintings so beautifully constructed, so skillfully composed under the heavy critical brow of a shattered artist, stroke after stroke of graphite; paintings that almost serve a purpose, almost fill a hole, almost, like the many crumpled sketches in your ink-stained hands over this tiring adolescence, make everything else go away. Almost make you believe in those words. "Safe". "Family". And all the other make-believe words told to the naive tiny tots of the System. The pictures bring you closer to the sky, closer to that window, almost closer to the real world that exists somewhere beyond the jigsaw pieces of transport and finances and deadlines and documents that somehow string together the System's definition of your life.

Almost.

You're not so cynical. You know many are content to live these lives. Many bright-faced little kids find their Daddy Warbucks and live happily ever after. But no one likes used goods. You're not a kid anymore. You don't have any redeeming childish charm about you. You can't even be bothered to remember the parents' names anymore. Sometimes you shoot yourself in the foot with pick-pocketing or vandalism just to clip the charade short so they can throw you back into the only little hovel that you feel welcome at.

And sometimes the home is almost right. Sometimes you feel something almost close to the kinship at the ward. Sometimes you almost think to yourself that these are the ones. That you might almost be normal. That you might not be so broken.

And you sit against the foot of no-longer-your bed, fiddling with your dad's old laces on your only dad's old boots, and listen as the not-your-mother sighs, muffled through a wall, and recites her lines into the telephone.

The car comes to pick you and your raggedy blue backpack up to take you home. The couple waves. You can't.

"Honey, I thought they'd be the perfect fit," the round, dark-skinned caregiver in the driver's seat tells you, forcing eye contact through the rear view mirror.

"So did I," your brain says.

"Well, they weren't," your mouth.

You've lost count of how many car talks have transpired before Miss Larken has run out of things to comfort you with. So you just ride.

You fling open the front door and hurry into the dormitory, where the children are chatting, where bunks are strewn about the room, decorated with what little means of construction paper and holiday tinsel the kids have at their disposal.

"Guess who's back," you say in the doorway as you drop your bag onto your bed.

A clump of older kids sitting in the corner salute you with a volley of casual greetings. The group seems to get smaller every time you return from a trial, and this time it frightens you that you can't quite place who's missing.

"Jack!"

You turn suddenly to see a lanky, beanie-clad blonde boy run over to your side, assisted but not inhibited by his silver crutch. His eyes are aglow and his smile spreads like butter. And somehow, to you, after days of being out in the cold, this home feels warm again.

"Almost thought you was gonna be gone for good," he tells you.

"Nah, the world just ain't ready for Jack Kelly yet," you lightly joke.

And you stumble through the daily routines of supper and schoolwork until the oblivion swallows up day once more and the silence slays the restless wanderers - all but two, that is.

You find him sitting with his good leg propped up on the long ledge of the bedroom window, lightly wrapped in a fleece blanket, searching the stars for whatever it is up there that comforts you. The kid doesn't sleep. And when he doesn't, you don't either.

You both lean on either side of the frame, speaking in crumbling murmurs and whispers about the shape of the clouds that day. About the lights dotting the horizon like a mismatching jewel necklace. About birds obnoxiously crying out as they glide through the sky in crooked formations. It feels to you as easy as idle chatter. As that is exactly what it is. And it's beautiful.

But you find your gaze drifting away from the window after such talk. You feel the stars fade back into the limitless darkness. You once again become aware of the wood beneath your feet, the soft radio channel of Christmas carols filling the empty air, and your brother at your side.

Crutchie is good for you. He keeps you grounded. He's the light that clears the fog of your dreamer's intoxication. He doesn't have to try, really. He just wants to make sure you're okay.

This is as close as you've gotten. This is as close as you'll ever get. This is probably as close as you ever want to be.

Close to that something more. Close to that encompassing feeling that you're not alone. Close to having a family of your very own.

"You ever wonder," you ask, cutting into the empty falling air, "if you'll ever get out? You ever worry 'bout whether or not we'll jus' be shoved to the street again? You ever doubt you'll get folks yourself?"

Crutchie looks at you for a long time. He's used goods, too. The tiny toy train with the lopsided wheel. And he knows that, and he's okay with that, somehow. Maybe it's because his dents are on the outside, unlike yours, and inside he's still got his wits and heart in perfect condition.

Unlike yours.

He looks at you a lot.

"Who needs folks?" He asks. Then he smiles at you. "I got friends."