Here's a little preview of my contribution:
Feral Children by Ken Foster
I was thirty-four years old when I adopted my second child, at a pet store on Highway 41. I had only gone in for some kibble, for Max, and was looking at a few chew toys. I’d forgotten that on Saturdays the Humane Society set up their cages and lured people into adoption. I don’t know how I managed to forget—that was how I ended up with Max.
Dora was the only girl there that day, and they’d set her up at the far end of the aisle, past all the dogs and rabbits and cats.They somehow managed to squeeze her into a dress, but the cage was too small, her hair was a wreck and she had no interest in the red rubber bone they’d given her to keep her occupied. She was well behaved, considering. She just sat with one hand in her mouth, staring quietly at all the human families who wanted animals instead of her. It must have been strange, seeing all those families with little girls, better clothed than her and able to talk.That must have been what I was considering when one of the volunteers approached.
“She’s feral,” the woman said flatly, as if she thought I’d never seen a child in a cage before.
Needless to say, things go horribly wrong and PETA decides that children should be protected from abuse by euthanizing them early. Or something like that.
It is fiction.