For what seems like the millionth time, I find myself in the passenger seat of Miss MacCoy’s busted-up Honda Civic, on my way to another “home”. The morning dawned gray and unremarkable, the smell of impending rain hanging heavily in the air. My dad used to tease me because days like these are actually my favorite. I love the hours before a big storm hits more than anything—when the air itself is charged and alive in your lungs. Wherever I am, whatever house I happen to be staying in, the sound of a storm raging outside is always strangely comforting to me. Even now that the day is wrapping up, it gives me a certain sense of ease. “It’s my birthday tomorrow,” I say, staring out at the run-down neighborhood as it races by my window. “Shit,” Miss MacCoy mutters, glancing at me guiltily, “I should have remembered that. I’m sorry.” “It’s cool,” I say, “You’ve got a ton of kids to look after. I wouldn't be able to keep them all straight, either.” “Still,”
