The twelve-year-old boy became perfectly still.
The older girl tightened both arms around the toddler.
The county agent opened the ledger.
His fingers moved slowly down one page.
He clearly hated what he was about to say.
“The Dawson farm can take two boys.”
The twins gripped each other harder.
“Saint Agnes has room for three.”
The older girl closed her eyes.
“The other four will be placed with families temporarily until something permanent can be arranged.”
Nobody moved.
The rancher looked from face to face.
Nine children.
Nine different expressions of the same terror.
The county agent continued carefully.
“The placements aren't punishment.”
The twelve-year-old boy looked toward him.
“Will the twins stay together?”
The agent stopped.
That was answer enough.
One of the twins whispered:
“No.”
His brother turned toward him immediately.
The older girl lowered the toddler to the step and gathered one of the younger girls against her side.
The county agent tried again.
“We have to think about food.”
“Beds.”
“School.”
“Families who can actually manage—”
“We are a family.”
The twelve-year-old boy said it so softly the rancher almost missed the words.
The county agent looked at him.
The boy repeated:
“We are.”
The agent closed the ledger halfway.
“I know.”
“No.”
The boy shook his head.
“If you knew, you wouldn't split us.”
The county agent's face tightened.
“You think I want to?”
The boy said nothing.
The agent continued.
“I wrote to three counties.”
“I sent notices to churches.”
“I asked every household on the placement list.”
“There are nine of you.”
“No family can take nine children overnight.”
The rancher looked at the muddy toddler.
The child was staring at him.
Not blinking.
Something old moved inside him.
Something he had spent years making sure stayed quiet.
He heard himself speak before his practical mind caught up.
“I have room.”
The county agent turned.
“What?”
The rancher looked toward the children.
“At my ranch.”
The agent stared.
“You have room for what?”