The next few days were upside down. I was allowed to do whatever I wanted, though, my mother and father were constantly keeping tabs on me. They didn't say anything beyond making sure I was ‘okay.’

It was a strange feeling and I still had to debate whether or not I should sneak off. I was leaning more and more towards not.

This house was a better home for me. I didn't have a shift buddy for my bed, though I still slept underneath it in case someone broke in with ill intentions. But I didn't need to worry about someone else's body fluids on my blankets. I didn't need to guard my food while eating it. The protein bars I was stashing under the mattress weren't stolen.

So far this place had treated me very well.

Which was why I was now completely unsure. There were hazy memories that were starting to come back. The house looked and felt different than back then; smaller, less comfortable, and the people in them were less happy.

My mother knocked on my door one evening.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Taylor, how about you come downstairs for dinner tonight?” My mother asked.

I hesitated. Did I trust her and the others enough to come down and eat with them?

If I didn't, I couldn’t stay here. The camp was miserable but at least I knew who to trust there.

But if I could do this, that meant I could stay here.

I had to try at least. I wouldn't be able to sleep not knowing if I could or not.

I opened the door, slowly and looked my mother up and down.

She gave me a smile. “Take your time okay? We'll be happy to see you.”

With that she backed away, down the hall. She disappeared around the corner as I shut the door.

This was my chance to decide for sure if I wanted to stay. I pulled my bag open and got a hairbrush and my clean change of clothes. 

The bedroom had a tiny bathroom attached, literally a very tight squeeze of a shower stall and a toilet and sink crammed side by side. I took the time to lock the door and splash some water on my face, rubbing away any build up of sweat and oil. Then I changed into clean clothes and got my hair detangled, if still a bit ratty from a couple weeks of neglect.

The journey from the small bathroom to the dining room was nerve racking. Every creak in the floor boards sent my nerves higher and higher, until an uneasy trill vibrated in my veins.

I went around the corner, down the stairs and saw the dining table set in the middle of the rear room of the house.

I crept closer, my mother was there, as well as the man I took to be my father. There was also that younger teen boy who spotted me immediately and refused to break eye contact as I quietly came around to one of the chairs. 

My mother noticed me and smiled nervously.

“You came down,” she said. “I’m glad, Taylor.”

She turned then, and went into the other room.

I sat in the chair with my back to a wall, paying attention to the glass door to their backyard and the two other empty doorways, one of which my mother came back through with a large dish of spaghetti.  The other went to the foyer area and the base of the stairs.

The dish of spaghetti was set in the middle of the table. The teen boy’s eyes still watched me.

“What is your question?” I asked him finally. Having him staring was making me too uncomfortable.

“Huh?” my mother asked, but followed my gaze to the other boy. “Henry,” she said. “We talked about this.”

The boy named Henry finally looked down at his empty plate. “I just wanted to know if you were really my sister.”

I blinked, unable to answer that. I… thought maybe I could remember a baby. My eyes narrowed as I scratched at the barrier to my memories. 

“She is your sister,” my mother finally said. “You were only two when…” she stopped herself. That day must’ve been a touchy subject.

My father cleared his throat and reached over to grab the serving spoon. He proceeded to dish out some of the pasta and sauce onto his plate .

An awkward quiet settled as the spoon was passed around. I took it last and stared. The pasta looked harmless, and smelled wonderful. But there was still the nagging in the back of my head that I couldn’t trust food just given to me without some kind of catch. I couldn’t live like that forever, though.

I took a spoonful and gently laid the pasta down on the plate in front of me. It steamed with gentle curls of grey-white as I continued to stare at it. I set the serving spoon back in the dish and took a fork, pushing the pasta around briefly.

The closer inspection revealed nothing new. The long strands were evenly coated with the red sauce. A few chunks of sausage were nestled in as well. 

A sniff only gave up more of that delicious smell and with a tentative stab, I picked up some sausage and pasta on a fork and sniffed it one last time to be sure. Then I put it in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. The taste was wonderful. Nothing to indicate it had been poisoned. 

I set the fork down and folded my hand on my lap, waiting.

The rest of them were staring at me, I realized suddenly.

It probably wasn’t normal for someone to be so careful about poison in their presence. But I couldn’t bring myself to eat more just yet. At least a few minutes, if I didn’t feel any grossness by then, I could eat. 

“So, Taylor,” my mother started. “Are there any foods in particular you enjoy?”

I shrugged, and stared down at my plate. “I’ll eat whatever is given.”

She seemed uncertain by this response. “I want to make sure you get to eat things you enjoy, so if you ever think of something please tell me.”

“How about meat?” my father asked. “You’re not a vegetarian are you? Or a vegan?”

I shook my head. “I’ll eat whatever,” I repeated. “I won’t be picky.”

“Oh, it’s not about being picky,” my mother interjected. “We want you to be happy.”

There was visible confusion on my face. I was happy here. The thought of never having to execute contracts again was wonderful. I couldn’t ask for anything more. Food, a place to sleep, a supply of water. My needs were covered. 

Although… being here meant I’d never see any of the other contractors again. Most of them I couldn’t care less about but there were my friends too: kids a bit like me.

I picked the fork up to hold in my hand and feel the metal press into my flesh as I squeezed it.

“It’s okay, Taylor,” my mother said. “You need to adjust to everything, I understand that.”

I nodded, though I didn’t really understand. Adjust to being here? I was fine here.

The pasta sat on my plate still. I took a moment to assess if I felt symptoms. Everything was normal.

I put some more pasta on my fork and ate.

The others were watching me, but more with relief now.

I thought I could probably do this. Maybe that’s all the adjustment I needed, getting used to being around these people. They were my family, and that seemed to carry quite a weight with it I didn’t understand.