Every room in the old house has a kid I almost remember

I'm walking through the house we had twelve years ago, and every bedroom holds a child I took care of at some point, but their faces are all slightly wrong, like drawings that got erased halfway. The last one is holding a pen the way they do before they're taught — fist clenched, whole arm moving — and I'm trying to remember which kid it is when the phone starts ringing. The phone is the case worker line, but the ringtone is that kid laughing. I woke up before I could answer.