One afternoon, I sat beside him with my book and joked, “If you’re guarding the window, you should share the view.”
He looked at me and said, “You’re new.”
“Returned,” I said. “I’m Claire.”
“Noah.”
From that moment on, we were inseparable.
Growing up together meant seeing every version of each other—angry, quiet, hopeful, disappointed. When couples toured the home, we never bothered hoping. We knew they wanted someone easier. Someone without a wheelchair. Someone without a file full of failed placements.
We made a joke of it.
“If you get adopted, I get your headphones.”
“If you do, I get your hoodie.”
We laughed, but we both knew no one was coming.
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