The Girl
I ran away from home when I was sixteen, though there wasn’t much to run away from. Slums, screaming mothers, big-fisted uncles with leering eyes, and a heap of trouble everywhere I turned—my world was coming apart, not that I was ‘altogether’ in the first place. Eastern Europe was in the business of war and hate most of my childhood. And I, being a silly, penniless waif on the streets, landed in the detention home every time I turned around—pretty common for runaways like me. They hauled us in at mid-night, only to release us at noon, because they didn’t want to feed us. The kitchen wasn’t much of a kitchen, and they had the hardcores to feed—the ones they wouldn’t let go. Prostitutes and runaways could fend for themselves.
And I did—fend for myself. We ran in packs, enough to
