|| Iris ||I sat at an orange picnic table, waiting for my interview. I ran my hand through my chopped hair, letting the winter sun warm my scalp. The families weren't supposed to be shopping, it was supposed to be a 'getting to know you' visit, but it was an audition and everyone knew it. I was worried- I didn't want to get placed. I would rather stay at this crappy foster home until I was eighteen.At a table under the bi...