Philo Nockby breathed in the stale dustiness of his pillow and felt sloppy drool leaking from his lips. He opened his groggy eyes and peered around his bedroom to see three other foster boys fast asleep. Jonathan, the youngest at age four, slept on a spare mattress on the ground. He had dark, frizzy hair, and was clutching his little stuffed horse named Hercules. 

Jonathan arrived only three months ago. He hopped around lots of foster homes just like Philo had. Jonathan did sometimes cry late at night. The whimpering made it difficult for all the foster kids to sleep. His whole life, Philo never had his own room.

Philo quietly sat up in his bed and his sweaty pajama shirt clung to him like cooked spaghetti to a wall. Philo changed into his ripped jeans and one of his six faded t-shirts. Most of his clothes became too snug a few group homes ago. What was left he kept in a black trash bag under his bed. Philo didn’t own any other belongings because his parents died before he was even a toddler. As soon as he became comfortable in a new foster home, he would just get transferred again. Philo learned there was no point in saving what was worthless. 

Philo snuck through the hallway and down the staircase. Their kitchen looked like it was straight out of a cheap 1980s sitcom. Philo opened the refrigerator to find a carton of eggs, half a jar of salsa, apricot jam, and a nearly empty gallon of milk. On the counter was some overly ripe fruit and a bag of sliced Wonder Bread. Philo sighed. He had worked with worse. 

As Philo grabbed the eggs and started cooking, he felt a finger poke his hip. 

“Boo!” Jonathan shrieked behind him. Philo flinched and almost dropped the frying pan. 

“Good morning, Philo,” the boy laughed. 

“You scared me!” Philo smiled, placing the eggs and a little bowl of salsa on the table. “Did you sleep well?” 

“Kind of.” Jonathan sat at the table, eagerly. “Hi, Gabby!” 

A young girl of about eleven entered the kitchen. She was one of the other eight children at the group home. 

“I didn’t sleep well,” Gabby complained while sitting down. “Monica came home super late and woke Jonathan up. Chelsea and Rachel were chatting about their friends until ten, but I guess I’m used to that.” 

Philo added the ripe fruit and milk into their shoddy green blender that luckily pureed their breakfast smoothies before calling it quits. As he poured their drinks into nine reusable plastic cups, the last three foster girls approached the dining room table. Rachel sat next to Gabby without taking her eyes off of her phone. Chelsea tousled Philo’s hair and grabbed one of the smoothie cups. 

“Hey! The guys aren’t up yet!” Philo called out, hoping they could eat like a real family for once. 

“It doesn’t matter, Philo,” Chelsea retorted with a shrug as she tasted the smoothie. “Oh, this is good.” 

Monica, the oldest, grabbed her backpack, and rushed to the fridge. 

“Philo! Did you use all the milk?” she yelled at him. 

“There was only a little bit. I used it in the eggs and smoothies for everyone,” Philo replied, hoping it wasn’t a big deal. 

“I wanted cereal! I need to go with my friends early today,” Monica scolded while glaring down at him. 

“Um, sorry? I didn’t know,” Philo responded nervously. 

“Ugh, whatever.” Monica reached up to grab a box of sugary cereal. “How hard is it to make sure we have enough milk? You’re supposed to keep track of the food. Do your chores right, or I’m complaining to Doug!” 

With that, Monica turned on her heels with the box of Cocoa Puffs and slammed the door on her way out. No one was shaken by this dramatic outburst.