I was seventeen, stuffing every dollar I could into my bra, dreaming of my own apartment. No ID. Not yet eighteen. My tips from waitressing paid for my bus fare, soap, and one or two meals a day if I was careful.
I was surviving. Then one day, I looked in a borrowed corner where my clothes used to be. Empty. Just orangey carpet. They’d stolen everything, even my underwear. Before I could figure out what had happened, my grandmother’s coffee cup hit the table.
“Get out.”
The screen door snapped shut behind me. My blisters were already torn from my waitressing shift. I had nowhere to go. I left with fresh blood filling the heels of my shoes.
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