Two books.
The stuffed animal somebody gave you three houses ago.
Sometimes, every possession you own fits into one black plastic bag tied at the top.
I was seven the first time a social worker told me to pack.
I remember staring at the bag and thinking:
If my life fits inside that, how important can I possibly be?
By thirteen, I had lived in six homes.
At fifteen, nine.
Some foster parents were kind.
Some were tired.
One drank too much.
One made me sleep in a laundry room because she said I disturbed her biological children.
Another locked the refrigerator after eight at night.
The last family called me ungrateful when I refused to call them Mom and Dad after three weeks.
So when I turned eighteen, I left with two hundred fourteen dollars, a duffel bag, and the absolute certainty that
I would rather sleep in my car than beg anyone to keep me again.
Then I met Jake Reed.
Jake understood garbage bags.
