My nine year old son huddles in a shivering ball on the floor of the therapist's office. Dead eyes, unresponsive. All he would tell her was his birthday. That was enough. That was too much. His past is acid, burning everything it touches, leaving raw and spreading wounds in its wake. It takes many long minutes to get him to understand that I'm here, that he's safe, that it's time to go now. Much later, in the car, his little voice insists that he never, ever wants to tell anyone what happened to him. This is life after foster care.