Family looks like a closed bedroom door. It sounds like muffled giggles and K-pop. Behind the door is our teenage foster son, watching YouTube. I knock, asking him if he wants to join us for a walk. Sometimes he says yes. He trails at least a block behind, and I glance back over my shoulder; our neighbors fly Confederate flags and our town is infamous for a 1930 lynching. When I turn around, expecting calamity, I'll see instead him crouched at the edge of a pond, studying a fish he caught in his hat, or landscaping a frail tree in the park. His family are refugees, and he stays quiet about their past. Our evenings together look like him eating chicken nuggets and playing Fortnite while we eat kale and read. He's going to go home soon. I already miss the laughter behind his door.