I learned how to leave quickly.
How to eat fast before food disappeared.
How not to cry in front of strangers because pity always came with consequences.
When I aged out at eighteen, the state handed me paperwork, two trash bags of clothes, and something they called “independence.”
Which really meant:
Good luck.
I ended up in that small town because rent was cheap and nobody cared enough to ask questions.
For years, I drifted between terrible jobs.
Construction.
Warehouse shifts.
Gas stations.
Landscaping.
Eventually, I walked into Joe’s Diner during a breakfast rush and asked if they needed help.
One waitress had quit mid-shift.
Joe looked me up and down like he was evaluating damaged furniture.
“You ever carry three plates at once?”
