My earliest memory: broken glass, insults, and accusations thrown like currency. I remember my father looking at me in disgust as he downed a bottle of Budweiser, asking where I got my eyes, my black hair. My mother’s harsh laugh cut through the air, sharp and cruel. I can still hear my father’s fists pounding her body, the doors slamming behind him, and beer bottles smashing against walls, shattering into glittering pieces.

  The police were never helpful. They’d show up, tell my parents to keep it down, and leave. Ignorance is bliss, I guess. A couple of times, my father got hauled off in a paddy wagon, his rage spilling over onto me or Mom. Charges never stuck. By morning, he’d be back, and the precinct looked at my mother like she was an utter moron. Like they were saying: What kind of mom picks a man over her kids? Apparently, a lot of them do.

  I learned early that no one was coming for me. No one would tell me it was going to be okay. So I learned to fend for myself. I slept with one eye open, shaking at sounds I didn’t want to name. But sometimes, they forgot I existed. The house would fill with smoke—green haze, sometimes with something that made my skin tingle and my head float. Weightless. Free. The haze wrapped around me like both a shield and a trap. Those nights were my favorites.

  Other nights, I wasn’t fast enough to reach my hiding spot under the bed. His fists found me instead. Alcohol soaked into his pores, his anger spilling over onto me. I lay there, taking it, because no one was coming. Mom seemed relieved. I thought if I just took it, it would make them happy. Eventually, even that stopped amusing them. Into the closet I went: starved, sobbing, pounding on the doors until my voice went raw.

  When I was finally let out, I learned that the marks on my arms and legs didn’t matter. They weren’t supposed to. They had stories no one would ever believe. I hid them, covering the bruises until one day they got too bad. I couldn’t go to school. I sat in silence, letting the world fade, letting the bruises fade, and hoping no one would notice.

  I got better at hiding. Better at reading their patterns. Better at slipping out unnoticed. And then, one day, Mother had enough. She hit him over the head with a brick. Blood painted the living room walls. Calm, precise, like she’d rehearsed it a thousand times, she called the cops on herself. I got nothing—just a shitty apology—while they led her away in cuffs. That’s how I ended up with the Hillards.

  By then, the world felt broken. Like me. And I didn’t even know how to want anything different.

  The Hillards were… nice at first.

  They took me to doctors, got my vaccines up to date, had an orthodontist slap braces on my teeth. I was fed three times a day. My caseworker popped in once a month. Life was good.

  But something didn’t feel right.

  No yelling. No physical punishment.

  It felt like holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  I figured if I did enough stupid stuff, they’d send me back somewhere familiar. Somewhere that made sense. Instead, they stuck me in therapy.

  So I started staying out late. Hanging around people I shouldn’t. Bumming drugs off boys who thought I was pretty. Drinking from their “locked” liquor cabinet. I guess I just went nuts—I couldn’t accept that I was safe, or that I was getting what I needed.

  It wasn’t until my behavior bled into school that the Hillards finally lost patience.

  The first time they yelled, I felt like I could breathe.

  Finally—proof this family wasn’t some candy-coated lie. They could scream at me just like the old ones did. And I loved it.

  I brought alcohol to school, smoked Mary J in the bathroom, chopped off my long black hair, and leaned hard into smoky black eyeliner that became my signature look.

  But the icing on the cake was when I fought my teacher… and the teacher’s aide… and the principal.

  I felt rabid. Like every punch, every scream was a lullaby meant to calm the storm raging inside me.

  When the rage wore off, I cried in my teacher’s arms while the principal fetched the nurse.

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  Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

  That was all I could choke out.

  When the smoke cleared and everyone was patched up, I was sent to the office. The Hillards were called. My caseworker too. We all sat in the guidance counselor’s office, talking about my IEP like it explained everything.

  The anger on my foster parents’ faces felt like a reward. I could breathe again. I imagined they’d yell at me when we got home, the house would settle, and I’d drown myself in the cheap wine they bought.

  At least… that’s what I thought would happen.

  Instead, the counselor turned to them.

  “With her emotional outbursts,” she said, “even though she’s now in a stable home, she needs structure—trained counselors who can monitor her around the clock.”

  She slid a pamphlet across the desk. The caseworker flipped through it, then handed it to my foster parents.

  As they read, the guilt set in.

  I was being sent away again.

  Why couldn’t anyone just love me?

  Why wasn’t I enough?

  No one spoke. The silence was so thick that the only sound was the ticking of the analog clock on the back wall.

  Right then and there, the decision was made.

  Happy Campers Troubled Teens Program.

  Pickup in four hours.

  Like every foster kid ever, I packed what little I owned into garbage bags and waited at the end of the driveway. My foster parents stood together at the screen door, holding each other, watching me from a safe distance.

  Luckily for me, unlike some of the kids on the bus, I wasn’t handcuffed to the seat.

  A girl with wild red hair, olive skin, and an even wilder temper yanked at her cuffs. She looked up at me and sneered.

  “The fuck you looking at, you gothic bitch?”

  I laughed and slid into the seat behind her.

  “I’m looking at a sad excuse for a human being. What’d you do—drink underage? Fucking poser.”

  She snorted and leaned back.

  “Nah. I spray-painted a pig dressed like a cop humping a stack of cash on the police precinct, got blackout drunk at the scene, puked on an officer, and threatened to kill the judge who sentenced me. Probably should’ve gone to juvie, but they stuck me in this happy-camper bullshit instead. What about you, foster kid?”

  “How’d you know I was—” I started.

  “No luggage. Just a plastic bag. And no parents waving you off like everyone else.” She shrugged. “Either you’re a foster kid, or your parents hate you.”

  “Turns out you’re right on both counts,” I said quietly.

  “Well… fuck.” Her tone softened. “Sorry. Parents can be assholes.”

  I smiled despite myself. “Yeah. Something like that. I’m Vaelan.”

  She twisted around as far as the cuffs allowed and flashed me a feral grin.

  “I’m Pyrenna. Friends call me Renna.. Well they would if I had any friends .” She paused. “Hey. We should watch each other’s backs. You in?”

  I studied her, searching for something sharp or hidden beneath the bravado.

  She seemed… sincere.

  Couldn’t hurt to have one friend.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m in.”

  In a weird way, I made my first real friend at seventeen. That had to count for something.

  Renna turned forward again, finally relaxing.

  “Guess I should stop fighting the restraints. It’s rubbing my wrists raw.” She yawned. “I’m gonna sleep while I can. Heard they don’t let you much once we’re inside. You should too.”

  She folded her hands and rested her head against the seat in front of her.

  I don't know how long we rode on the bus. It seemed like hours before we arrived at our destination. When we pulled up, the place looked… clean. Too clean. Like someone had scrubbed away every bad thought before it could grow legs. White fences. Manicured lawns. A sign smiling too hard:

  Happy Campers: Troubled Teens Program.

  Yeah. Right.

  I wanted to laugh, but all that came out was a bitter little snort.

  The counselors met us at the bus. One wore glasses that screamed I’ve read too many books about fixing kids like you. The other smiled like he was trying to convince himself he belonged there.

  I memorized their faces. Their movements. Their tells.

  If they thought I was going to melt down right away, they were wrong.