I was seventeen when the door closed behind me for good.
No graduation party. No safety net. Just a backpack stuffed with a few shirts, a toothbrush, and the kind of stubborn hope only teenagers mistake for a plan.
“Sure,” I muttered, trying to sound indifferent.
Inside was a sandwich — thick slices of bread, turkey, cheese, a smear of mustard. Nothing fancy. It might as well have been a feast. I ate it too quickly, barely tasting it, my body grateful in a way words can’t describe.
