No one went looking for me when I left for the new facility.

  Nope. Not this guy.

  That’s the beauty of the system, I guess. Kids age out. Disappear. Run away. One day Gregory—who liked throwing gum at little Suzie—is gone. Sheets stripped. Bed reassigned. By lunch, there’s a stick figure taped to the wall pretending to be a kid. Paperwork already stamped with the seal of approval.

  Today, I was the “relocation.”

  Oof. Off to a great start.

  I follow procedure. Walk into the director’s office. Get told my disrespectful behavior has become too much and I’m being sent to some camp or other. I wasn’t exactly paying attention—too busy staring at her manicure, wondering how she afforded all that intricate work on a starving-artist salary.

  Not my monkeys.

  So yeah. Yada yada yada. I pack my stuff and say goodbye to the littles. Honestly, I think my only real crime was asking too many questions. Why the water was always cold and smelled like sulfur. Why we were fed slop while staff got steak dinners. I know I’m not the brightest bulb, but come on—you don’t have to be a genius to call bullshit.

  I’m still stuck in my head when the bus pulls up.

  “To new adventures,” I mutter to no one, hauling my bag up the steps.

  The bus smells like sweat, regret, and something else I can’t place. Fishy leather? Someone not washing their ass? Something in between. I crack the window and watch the town fade behind us—buildings giving way to trees, everything blurring as we head toward wherever the hell this place is.

  What I can’t wrap my head around is what they think they’re fixing.

  I work. I follow rules when they make sense. I don’t steal. Don’t hurt people. Don’t get high. I just don’t bow my head when someone talks down to me. Apparently, that’s the real problem.

  I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar tension settle in. Six-foot-one, built enough that adults expect trouble before I open my mouth. Beach-blond hair pulled into a half-assed man bun, curls always escaping no matter how many times I redo it. I used to think looking like this gave me some kind of advantage.

  Turns out it just makes people decide who you are faster.

  Pothead. Dummy. Problem kid.

  Fair enough.

  The bus slows. A few kids shift in their seats. Nobody’s talking. You learn quick not to make friends on transport days—half the time they don’t last, and the other half they get used against you. I keep my eyes down, jaw tight, hands shoved into my hoodie pockets.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The doors hiss open.

  Heat hits first. Thick. Heavy. Like the air’s got hands and it’s not here to be gentle.

  Yeah. This ain’t it.

  “Off the bus,” a man barks. Clipboard. Sunglasses. Smile too clean to mean anything good. “Time to meet your new family!”

  I step onto cracked pavement and scan the place out of habit. Fences. Cameras. Buildings painted neutral, like feelings aren’t allowed past the gate. They’ll call it camp. Orientation, maybe.

  It’s a facility.

  Always is.

  They line us up like inventory. Headcount. Names checked off. When they get to me, no one says it out loud—just a glance at the paper, a pen swipe, and that’s it.

  Confirmation I exist, completed in ink.

  Good enough.

  That’s when I see the uniforms.

  Dresses.

  I blink. Once. Twice.

  Nope. Still dresses.

  Long. Dull-colored. Same ugly cut for everyone. I laugh under my breath before I can stop myself.

  “You got a problem?” Clipboard Guy snaps.

  I shrug. “Didn’t realize we were doing historical reenactments.”

  Bad choice.

  His smile tightens. “You’ll learn respect here.”

  I’ve heard that sentence my whole life. It’s usually followed by rules that only apply one way.

  They hand me my clothes. The fabric is thick, scratchy—heavy, like it’s meant to remind you it’s there. I don’t say anything. Just tuck it under my arm and go where they tell me.

  The locker room smells like bleach and fake flowers. No stalls. I’d bet my left nut some dummy mixed bleach with pinesaw. No privacy. I change fast, jaw clenched, heat already pooling at my lower back. When I straighten up, the mirror doesn’t look right.

  I don’t recognize myself.

  They stripped us all down and dressed us the same. Boys. Girls. Doesn’t matter. Individuality erased in one ugly layer of fabric.

  That’s when it clicks.

  This isn’t about discipline.

  It’s about control.

  As we’re herded back outside, I take in the other kids. Some younger. Some shaking. Some already shut down behind their eyes. No parents. No one asking questions. No one counting days.

  Same as me.

  I knot my hands together and breathe through my nose. Stubborn doesn’t mean stupid. Loud doesn’t mean careless. I’ll watch. I’ll wait. I’ll survive.

  They think because no one came looking for me, I won’t matter if I disappear again.

  They’re wrong.

  I don’t need to win.

  I just need to outlast them.