![]() ![]() Fletcher sighed, folding her arms and tapping index finger against one arm. Soon there won’t be any place left to send you.” She poked my inheritance package with her index finger, harrumphing quietly as she eyed the crumpled paper and worn strings. ![]() ![]() Finally, she walked into the room, shaking her head as she strolled past my dresser. I figured even I couldn’t mess up ramen noodles.” “You decided that you would be kind to Joan Sheldon – one of the city’s finest and most well-renowned chefs – by burning down her kitchen?” “I was trying to do something nice for my foster parents.” For her, it was a daring outfit – the shoes, after all, were maroon. ![]() She wore a simple white blouse and a black ankle-length skirt. She perpetually kept her hair up in a bun that was only slightly less tight than the dissatisfied line of her lips. Fletcher – my personal caseworker – might have been a pretty woman, had she not been wearing a pair of hideous horn-rimmed glasses. Fletcher knocked but didn’t wait for my reply before pushing open the door. Eight months was a valiant effort when taking care of me was concerned. Joan and Roy had lasted quite long – longer, certainly, than any of my other recent sets of foster parents. ![]()
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