Chapter 5: Foster Guardian

I was just about to negotiate for at least a bedroom to myself when suddenly, they all crowded close, hats in hand, voices trembling: “Foster Guardian, thank you for letting us stay.”

“The world’s turned into a nightmare; only Foster’s still a safe haven.”

“Your kindness can’t be put into words.”

They looked at me with trembling hands, as if I was some small-town miracle worker or the only lighthouse left on a stormy night. Their voices cracked with emotion, eyes shining with hope and fear in equal measure.

I hunched my shoulders and walked away. So sentimental—way too sentimental. For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond.

What were they saying just now? Oh, right. They said all the hope in the world was stitched into a cloak, gifted to the President by Rachel—proof that some debts never get repaid.

I thought about it, and decided I’d better go find the President—ask him to return that cloak. Not that I’m so kind-hearted. Mainly, with so many people living in Foster, it can’t go on like this. I’d rather have some peace and quiet.

My mind wandered, picturing the President lounging in some D.C. office, maybe feet up on the desk, while everyone else scrambled. Maybe he’d listen if I just showed up—after all, who could ignore a Foster?