For twenty-four years I’d believed I was an unwanted orphan left in an Oakridge emergency room with no family line to claim.

Now I knew Patrick had pulled my sealed foster file six years ago, before he ever said a word to me in that coffee shop.

He knew who I was before I did.

The registry screen showed an urgent option in bold blue letters: Priority Biological Lineage Verification and Kinship Matching Service.

A flat two hundred dollars, instant priority mail submission included.

If I paid the fee, I’d have ten dollars left in my pocket for food and gas.