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When I’d brought the file to Coast, I hadn’t expected things to change so much for us. I thought it would be healing for him to see that despite all his worries, his kids mostly turned out great. That the decision he’d deemed as ‘selfish’ to call in child services hadn’t led to some catastrophic series of events.

But Coast had made it a one-man mission to seek out the three at-risk children. Starting with Amy who—arguably—was in the worst place, being a young girl on the street, unprotected.

Of course, perhaps he hadn’t given her enough credit. Because when he’d found her little camp, he’d leaned down to glance inside her tent, only to find a knife pressed into his carotid from behind.

Amy had grown into a rough, tough, take-no-shit teenager who spoke her mind and strictly enforced her boundaries.

When he showed up with her—smelling a little worse for wear and in desperate need of a good meal—I’d been the one to suggest we let her stay the night in one of the extra bedrooms.

I’d meant only for the night. I mean, Amy was a runaway. I was pretty sure we could get in trouble for not reporting her to the authorities.

But one night turned into two, then a long weekend. And before we knew it, she was part of the family.

Not long after Amy was living with us full-time, there’d been a frantic knock on our front door at three in the morning.

When Coast went to open it—gun in hand, telling us to stay back—Grayson had fallen into Coast’s arms.

Bloodied and bruised, he’d barely been able to move, eat, or speak for days.

When he finally could, we learned that his gang had heard a rumor about him being a snitch, and had beaten and left him for dead.

We’d asked about his foster family, only to learn that his foster father and his biological sons were in the same gang.

“We have another room,” I reminded Coast when he’d looked ready to storm across town and do something that would etch more tally marks into his skin. “Make a deal with his foster family. He lives here. They get their check. Everyone’s happy.”

And so, we had another teenager in the house. Only, a boy. Who seemed to have hollow bones, because there was no other way to explain how he ate so damn much and still looked like a beanpole.

Ryland, well, Ryland was the newest addition.

He’d been released, as expected. He’d gone straight from juvenile hall to a group home. Where he was forced to keep to a rigid schedule and intense chores from his house parents and subjected to constant room searches and unreasonable curfews.

Basically, he felt like he was still being treated like a prisoner. Only worse, because where the corrections officers on the inside generally just left him alone, the house parents were constantly breathing down his neck.

Eventually, one night, there was another knock on our door.

Then there was Ryland.

A recent runaway who didn’t have anything but the clothes on his back and the sketchbook Coast had given him when he’d learned he was into art.

According to Ryland’s record, he was a frequent runaway in previous foster homes, so while his house parents had to reporthis disappearance, he was marked “AWOL from placement.” Which was a fancy way of saying that no one planned on looking for him.

Things could get sticky when he turned eighteen and needed to do all the things adults did. Get a job, drive, file taxes. He didn’t have his birth certificate or social security cards. He was a shadow kid. He existed, but not to the outside world.

We figured we could cross that bridge when we got to it. Help him rebuild his life the “right” way. Or, you know, hire Arty to give the kid a whole new identity.

There were options.

Ever since I’d heard Coast’s story about being a foster parent as a teenager himself, I’d felt this strange tug to become one as well.

When I’d confessed that desire to Coast, he’d given me a bit of a sad look before informing me it wasn’t going to be an option. Because of the club. Because of his work.

But the universe had a quirky sense of humor—tossing three needy teens at us, knowing we would feel compelled to raise them.

We were a big family these days.

Two parents, three teens, Lainey, and our little newborn son.

Our grocery bill was insane.