The week the Cormacks' offer expired, the staff at Cedar House packed up the art room.
The children who lived there were asked to keep their belongings in labeled bins. Nobody could say what would happen to the furniture. A new group home might take the beds. The old books might go to a church. The building itself would be sold.
A staff member named Garth carried the paint supplies downstairs in a cardboard box. He was kind to us most days, but he seemed angry about the closing.
"Every place is short-staffed," he told me as I watched him lift the box. "There aren't enough homes for everyone. People ask for miracles and then act surprised when the system runs out of them."
I didn't answer.
The voice in my head said, "Interpretation detected. No action required."
I took my notebook to
