Parent Program
It hadn't mattered, even when he had known better.
Sergio curled up in the corner of the bed set against the wall in the sparsely furnished room. It was quiet, save for the hum of the lights overhead. A tray of food sat untouched on an otherwise bare table, having gone cold hours ago.
He had known not to go with the lady working at the book bus. He had known it was strange that they didn't care about his library card, and that getting into the vehicle was probably a bad idea. But when the smell of the exhaust coming from the bus had become sweet - almost like that of baking cookies - none of that had mattered.
He hadn't felt himself sit down. He hadn't felt himself go to sleep. But when he woke up again, Sergio found himself in the sparsely furnished room. A man with golden eyes dressed in a suit had come to him later. He spoke gently and had a lot of very nice things to say, but after repeatedly asking to go home, all of those nice things added up to the same conclusion every time: No.
After a while, Sergio had just stopped talking with the golden-eyed man; stopped looking at him. Instead, he had curled up, hugging his knees to his chest, and cried until his eyes were red and raw; wordless for the last few hours.
Maybe his parents weren't always nice - maybe they didn't always have time for him, but he missed them. He missed his friends. He missed his home and the woods and the creek and school. He missed finding tadpoles and bird's nests and planting flowers. And the longer he stayed here, the more sure he became that he was never going to see any of those people or places or things ever again.