Forty-nine years back
Oded sat in the sterile waiting room, his eyes fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor. He'd lost count of how many times he'd been here, returned to child services like a defective product. He'd never met his actual parents; never known them… he didn't even know if they were alive. From his earliest memories, he's been passed around from one foster home to another. The latest foster parents, the Smiths, stood by the reception desk, whispering with the social worker… or, at least they must have thought their hushed tones were inaudible, but he could still hear them… he could hear the frustration and desperation in their voices.
"I don't know what to do with him anymore," Mrs. Smith said, her tone flat. "He's not exactly a bad boy, but…things keep happening around him."
"What kind of things?" the social worker asked, her pen poised over her clipboard.
