Lost cause

The dumping ground

I always thought the name "Dumping Ground" was a joke. Something people said because they thought kids in care were rubbish nobody wanted. Turns out, that's actually what they call it. Out loud. With signs and everything.

The taxi door slammed behind me, rattling through my bones. Lacy pressed herself into my side like a shadow, her small hand gripping mine so tightly it almost cut off my circulation. I didn't tell her to let go. I needed the anchor as much as she did.

"Looks... nice," I lied.

The house was big—way bigger than the tiny flat we used to live in—but somehow it felt smaller. Like all the windows were eyes, staring. Judging. Wondering what our story was, and what we'd already done wrong.

A woman with wild curly hair and a smile too bright for this kind of place came out to meet us. I knew who she was. Everyone in care knew the name Tracy Beaker. Legend, apparently.

"You must be Lillian and Lacy." She crouched a little to smile at my sister. "Welcome to the Dumping Ground."

Lacy half-hid behind me, mumbling something that sounded like hello. I didn't say anything. I just nodded. Talking felt dangerous—like if I opened my mouth, everything we'd been through would spill out and make a mess on the driveway.

Inside, the place buzzed with noise—voices, footsteps, a TV somewhere too loud, arguments echoing down the hall. Normal chaos, but chaos all the same.

Tracy led us into the living room where a group of kids stared at us like we were new animals in a zoo. A girl with pigtails whispered something to a boy with spiky hair, who snorted. Another kid just folded his arms and glared.

"Everyone," Tracy announced, "these are our new arrivals. Be nice."

That last bit was definitely aimed at spiky-hair.

Lacy tugged on my sleeve. "Lil... I don't like it."

"I know," I whispered back, giving her hand a squeeze. "Just stick with me."

I could feel their eyes on us—seeing our mismatched clothes, the bags under our eyes, the fear I was trying way too hard to hide. They didn't know anything about us, and I planned to keep it that way. People can't hurt you with the truth if they don't know it.

But then one of them—Sapphire, I think her name was—smiled. Not in a weird, pitying way, but like she actually understood. For a split second, I let myself breathe.

Tracy showed us our room next. Two beds pushed against opposite walls. A wardrobe. A window that looked out into the garden. It wasn't much, but it was clean, and no one was shouting, or smashing things, or blaming us for anything. That alone felt strange.

Lacy walked in first, dropping her backpack on the bed closest to the window. "Can this be mine?"

"Course," I said. She needed the light more than I did.

Tracy put our files on the desk with a soft thud. "If you girls need anything, just ask. And remember... you're safe here."

Safe.

The word hit me harder than I expected. People had said that before—social workers, police officers, neighbours who pretended not to hear shouting through the walls. But safety never lasted. It was always one broken promise away from disappearing.

When Tracy left, closing the door behind her, the room suddenly felt too quiet.

Lacy sat on her bed, hugging her knees. "Do you think he'll find us?"

I sat beside her, brushing her hair back the way Mum used to do. My chest tightened, but I kept my voice steady. "No. They won't let him."

She nodded, but I could tell she didn't believe it. To be honest, neither did I. Not completely.

I looked around the room again—our room. Our new beginning. Or whatever people like to call it when they take you away from everything you know.

Footsteps thundered past the door. Someone shouted. Someone else screamed with laughter. More chaos. More life. More kids who'd been through things they didn't talk about.

I took a deep breath.

"Well," I said, standing up, "we might as well see what this place is actually like."

Lacy hesitated, then slipped her hand into mine again.

Together, we opened the door.

Walking into the hallway felt like stepping into a storm—not dangerous, just unpredictable. But maybe... maybe storms weren't all bad. Sometimes they cleared things out. Made space for something new to grow.

As we reached the stairs, I caught sight of Tracy talking to another care worker. She noticed us and gave a thumbs-up.

For the first time in a long time, I felt something flicker inside my chest—something tiny and ridiculous.

Hope.