Banshee by Susan Jean DeFelice

I am Mack.  I’m writing a letter to my real dad (not to my foster dad-I’ve had 12 so far and I’m not even 13).  I’m writing it carefully with their stubby pencil but these people don’t know where to mail it.  I tell them his address.  They say that’s not a valid address.  I say isn’t it close enough?  How many damn zip codes does Yakima have and can’t you guys do some research?  They tell me to calm down (I hate that the most).  They look at me like I’m about to tear their faces off.  When I step back from the thick glass they’re behind, their eyes relax a little and they say the usual:  we don’t have time right now (which means they won’t anytime soon).  I hear them talking about New Admits, guess a ton of them, so they won’t have any time in probably forever.

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