You hate the cats. You hate them more than the lukewarm tea, and you hate them more than the smell of lemon oil, and you hate them more than the rain. They get hair everywhere, and you've spent the first week in your new home sneezing and, just then, you're sitting in a sulk on the front step, wondering when you'll have to leave this place, just like you left all the others.
Past the fence, a boy throws a ball. It's bright red, and it bounces along the old excuse for a sidewalk, and you refuse to chase it. You don't want to be here, and you figure you'll stay there, on the stoop as night falls, and you'll show them all.
You are small, and your bowed lips turn down, and you want mum to come collect you, but you know mum won't. You know mum won't ever come again. Instead, there's the old woman inside, and she can't remember your name half the time. But neither can you, so you've that in common at least.