Ms. Waggoner. What a strange choice, I think, for a group counsel leader at the girl’s home—this prickly, middle-aged woman in a buttoned-up, long-sleeve blouse and black dress slacks. I mean, she does her job. For the past four months, she’d rounded us up from the hallway, led us to the group room, had us talk about our feelings, draw pictures, journal, and stuff. But where were the fuzzies? The sappy, I’m-here-to-help-you schmuck we girls had been so accustomed to from other leaders over the years. I mean, it doesn’t matter to me; I only have four weeks to go before I age out.

Aged out—there were two words that packed a punch. Simply put—you’re done. No one wants you. I’d asked, about a year ago, “So, where do I go when I age out?” The director had quirked an eyebrow and said, “Anywhere you want.”

Feeling surly today, I don’t participate in group—refuse to answer questions, refuse to journal, refuse to color. It’s all BS anyway. Not a single word or journal, or colored picture will help me when I walk out the door. After the group, Ms. Waggoner lays one hand on my arm and quietly says, “Wait,” while the others file out the door behind the technician to the lunch room.

I stand, looking her square in the face. She looks down at me from her six-foot height and smiles, though it doesn’t reach her hazel eyes. Slowly, she begins rolling up one of the sleeves on her blouse and holds out her arm. She has a long, clean-line scar across her wrist. I don’t ask the question aloud, but she knows and nods anyway. “There is always hope,” she whispers. “Don’t ever forget that.” And I don’t. Ever.