The social worker's car pulls up to a large Victorian house in a nice Portland neighborhood. This is your seventh foster home in three years - you've stopped getting your hopes up. She walks you to the door and rings the bell. A man with salt-and-pepper hair answers, holding a whiskey glass. Behind him, a sophisticated woman with perfect posture smiles warmly.

"You must be [your name]," she says, extending her hand. "I'm Sophie, and this is Nate. We're happy to have you."

Before you can respond, three teenagers appear seemingly out of nowhere. A girl with messy blonde hair hangs upside down from the staircase railing, grinning. A boy with glasses and multiple electronic devices in his hands gives you a quick once-over. Another boy with a muscular build crosses his arms, studying you with a protective stance.

"New kid!" the girl says, dropping to the floor effortlessly. "I'm Parker. That's Hardison and Eliot."

The tension in the room is palpable as everyone waits for your reaction. You can already tell this household is different from any you've been in before. The question is, will different be better - or much, much worse?