Looked at the leather vest.
Then at Noah.
“You eat spaghetti?”
Noah blinked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Shoes off.”
“Joe can stay for dinner if he behaves.”
Joe stared.
Noah almost smiled.
Denise’s house was the first place Noah slept eight consecutive hours in years.
The criminal investigation into Clive and Barbara began immediately.
Barbara denied knowing about abuse.
Clive denied everything.
Then police obtained evidence that complicated her story.
Text messages.
Complaints from former foster children.
One adult, now twenty-two, told investigators Clive had hit him repeatedly during a six-month placement.
He had told a caseworker once.
The complaint was classified as “unsubstantiated.”
Another former foster child described food being locked away.
Another remembered Barbara saying:
“Clive gets rough when boys disrespect him.”
The child-welfare agency began reviewing previous placements.
The town started hearing pieces.
People whispered.
Then reporters arrived.
That was when Keller gathered the Rust Fangs.
“No talking to media about Noah.”
He said.
Razer groaned.
“But they’re saying we rescued him.”
“We didn’t.”
Keller replied.
“We gave him somewhere to sit.”
“Professionals removed him.”
“Do not turn that kid into our reputation campaign.”
Nobody argued after that.
Noah continued visiting the clubhouse under supervision.
Not as an employee now.
As part of the mentorship program.
The club still paid his approved stipend.
Lucky still taught him.
Tina still fed him.
But something changed.
For the first time, Noah stopped looking at the clock constantly.
He did not have to calculate how long until he returned to Clive.
One Saturday, Lucky showed him how to use a micrometer.
Noah stared at the reading.
“Again.”
Lucky said.
Noah measured.
“Again.”
After the fifth repetition, Noah complained:
“I got it.”
Lucky shook his head.
“You got a number.”
“I’m teaching consistency.”
“Difference.”
Noah rolled his eyes.
Lucky smiled.
Progress.
Joe’s foster-parent approval took six weeks.
Home inspection.
Classes.
Background checks.
Interviews about Aaron.
His sobriety.
His finances.
His criminal record from his twenties, mostly minor.
His motorcycle club involvement.
Molina did not cut corners.
Joe did not ask her to.
Noah stayed with Denise while the process moved.
At first he hated it.
Then Denise discovered he liked blueberry pancakes.
She weaponized this information.
Within three weeks, Noah stopped calling her Mrs. Hart.
He called her Denise.
High praise.
When Joe’s home was finally approved for a therapeutic foster placement with additional oversight, Molina brought Noah into the decision.
Not the judge alone.
Not Joe.
Noah.
“You can stay with Denise.”
Molina said.
“You can go to another placement.”
“Or, if you want, Joe has been approved.”
Noah stared at her.
“You mean actually?”
“Actually.”
“For how long?”
“As long as the placement remains appropriate.”
“And if I mess up?”
Molina’s face softened.
“Children do not lose homes because they forget chores or get bad grades.”
Noah looked down.
Nobody spoke.
Then he asked:
“Can I still go to the clubhouse?”
Joe laughed.
Molina said:
“Yes.”
Noah nodded.
“I want Joe.”
Joe turned away.
Pretended to examine a terrible painting on the wall.
Nobody commented on the fact that he wiped his eyes.
The Rust Fangs did not build Noah a bedroom inside the clubhouse.
They did something better.