The Fosters

Shadows cling to Jamie, an 18-year-old waif scarred by a junkie mother's abandonment, her youth a grim carousel of orphanages, lockups, and alleyways. She's a ghost in her own skin, eyes glued to the floor, words barely escaping her lips. Her caseworker, pity in her voice, pitches her to a church scheme for wayward girls, perched on the sofa with surrogate guardians 'Daddy' Ron and 'Mama' Mary Foster—Charles Dera and India Summer eyeing the fragile Elsa Jean with feigned warmth. The Fosters murmur promises of parental devotion, chuckling at their apt surname as Jamie fidgets, craving the illusion of home. The worker exits, and Jamie's gaze lifts in silent plea. Ron ushers her out, while Mary drapes an arm around the girl, whispering sweet nothings. Ron returns, pats his thigh with a predatory glint. 'Be good now,' he growls, 'and climb onto Daddy's lap.' Jamie's head snaps toward him, shock widening her eyes. CUT TO TITLE. Dawn breaks harsh. Jamie hunches at the kitchen table, knife scraping potatoes, as Mary stirs the pot, her voice a velvet whip lecturing the girl on submission and sin's sharp edge, the air thick with unspoken hungers.