Norwegian Woody
I’d always been seen as a tragic figure in this town. I’d learned to deal with the unwanted stigma that followed me wherever I went, but I hated it. To simply be a person who’d grown up here like everyone else would have been nice. A regular Joe, rather than the boy who pity built. I was a living, breathing urban legend.
The boy who lived.
Yup, I was Woodrow Anker—the kid who’d witnessed his parents’ death at the age of three and survived. I’d hung upside down in the car as they bled to death in front of me. The person who’d caused the accident was never found, and I could still remember the smell of gasoline and my parents screaming in pain until they stopped, forever. I’d felt like I was floating. It had taken a long time for help to arrive, and not once did I cry or m
