A long time ago, somewhere in the very near future, a young boy named Hank was woken up by his mom. It was 4 am. The usual. It was time to leave. There would be a paper bag handed to him as he left the house containing fruit—usually an apple, a triangle cut sandwich with butter and cheese the way he liked it, and a card. Always a card.
Hank would empty his bag out on his seat and rip open the card. The card always, always had a message, hand written by his mom with usually a heart doodle, usually telling him she is proud, that he is strong, that he is loved.
But today's note was different. The note had one word on it. Goodbye. He looked out the bus window as it pulled away, his mom sitting on the step, waving a white handkerchief. And sobbing on to her sleeve.
He knew what it meant. He was theirs now. He no longer was son of Agnes. He was, well...he didn't know who he would be. They would decide that. He would always have a secret name. Hank. But it would be so secret that no one would ever call him that again. Not where he was going.