Henry watched the passing Maine landscape through the droplet-covered glass. The mist outside coated the car windows and the wipers moved in time with the slow song playing on the radio. He watched the trail of a drop, running in its own path, picking up other beads and rolling out of sight. Kind of like me, he thought, stopping in and then rolling along with no one to stop me.

Henry was a foster kid. He wound up in this car after his most recent stunt. He didn't really mind though, considering the last foster home he was in. He was lucky if his "parents" even remembered his name among the other kids there and the cheques they needed to cash, and his social worker was totally oblivious.

He stared straight ahead, not wanting a glance to lead to conversation with the woman on his left driving the car to his next foster home. He used his peripheral to watch her. Her blonde hair sat in waves past her shoulders and she drove with one hand on the wheel. She was his new social worker. She hadn't spoken to him much, but that was fine. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about his feelings. She'd said to call her Emma.

He thought about the last 24 hours. It started when he got in trouble for not paying attention in class, but he was sent to the Principal's office when the teacher yelling at him noticed the detailed comic strip he had drawn instead of listening, detailing his teacher's untimely death at the hands of his Principal, who happened to strongly resemble a dementor, sucking the souls of anyone Henry decided to draw. When the suspension came, so did the relocation. But it wasn't frazzled and bald Mr. Brooks in his too-large suit picking him up from the house that smelled of stale cigarettes, it was Emma.

"You know, you're going to break the windshield if you stare at it any harder," Emma said, breaking the silence. She could practically hear the boy thinking. At nearly 12 years old, he shouldn't have to be thinking so hard. At 12 years old he shouldn't be on his way to his eighth foster home either, but she knew what he was going through better than anyone, which was part of why she had fought so hard for his file when Brooks has stated this kid was beyond repair and he couldn't emotionally handle it anymore. He had said almost nothing, had shown almost no surprise when she had said he needed to gather his things because she needed to take him somewhere new. Almost. She had seen the flicker of shock, and what seemed like disappointment, covered up quickly by someone who knew how to hide their emotions. She knew about that as well, and it was part of what made her a good social worker. If she actually got to show how some of these cases made her feel, she wouldn't last a week. She sincerely hoped for his sake, that this new town and new home would be good for this boy. She firmly believed that no children are innately bad, but when you are shipped from home to home and you are known by a file number and not a name, you can get a little distant, and act out a bit. She mulled over what she knew about Henry, and her diagnosis was that he needed a loving home. This time it was the boy who broke the silence.

"So where are we going anyway?" He asked. Not that it matters, he thought, I'm sure I'll be out of here in a few months anyway.

"It's a town called Storybrooke, I think you're really going to like it there. And lucky for you, I was able to find a place near where you're staying, so I can watch out for you for a bit. Make sure it's a good fit for you, sound good?" she asked.

"I guess," he said. Why was she staying with him in Storybrooke? She was probably told to because of how many moves he'd had. It was probably her job. She probably had no choice, just like him.

"It's going to be okay, Henry," she said. She could sense his dread. She remembered the pit in her stomach every time she sat in the passenger's seat en route to her next home too. "And hey, I thought that your drawings were pretty good. I personally wanted the next installment. That Principal overreacted to what really should have been celebratory, considering you captured his essence so perfectly," she said smiling. As she glanced over at the boy, she saw a smirk break through his attempt at a blank expression. This might actually work, she thought.

They drove in silence and soon, they found themselves slowing down from their highway pace as they passed through Main Street in Storybrooke. Henry saw warm lights on in the buildings, and a man walking a dog, as a group of teenagers ran from the light rain into Granny's Diner. As he tried to take in the sights of the bustling town on a rainy evening, Emma followed the directions from her GPS and they turned onto Mifflin Street. As Emma pulled into 108, Henry saw what could only be described as a mansion filling out the space in front of him. Great, another group home with even more kids this time, I bet, he thought. He showed nothing on his face. I guess anything is better than where I just came from.

"This is it, Henry," Emma said as he reached for the handle. "Hang on a second, kid. Listen, if you need anything at all, this is my number. Don't hesitate; I'm going to be less than 5 minutes away. You call me if you need me, okay? I know we don't know each other yet. But I can't wait to get to know you. Let's go." He took the number and pushed it into his pocket, telling himself to put it somewhere safe when he could. He didn't know why, but he trusted Emma.

Emma grabbed his duffle from the back, and the fabric buckled as she picked up the nearly empty bag. Does he really have so little to bring with him? Henry quietly followed closely behind as Emma led him to the front door, and as she rang the doorbell they both held their breaths. Habit, they told themselves. After what felt like an eternity, but was only a few seconds, the door opened to reveal a huge, and strangely quiet house, for a group home, and the most beautiful woman Emma or Henry had ever seen.

"Regina Mills," she said, "and you must be Henry."