I really, truly believed that my mother would dump the douche and come looking for me, take me into her arms and tell me she was sorry for everything. Sorry that she'd killed my one and only friend in the world, that she'd been distracted with devils but was now singing choir with fucking angels. What a load of shit. I survived for awhile by dumpster diving and hanging out at the library. Sometimes I went to school; mostly I didn't. Then I met Hannah. Let me tell you about Hannah first because you're going to judge her which is fine because to be honest, she has problems, lots of them. She likes young boys. Not like little kid young, but too young, thirteen, fourteen. When I met her I told her I was fifteen; she knew I was lying. Hannah felt sorry for me because I was dirty and unwashed, my clothes stank, and I was getting skinny as hell. I was not the type of twelve-just-turned-thirteen year old that they write adventure books about, that survive in the wilderness with nothing but a fuckin' hatchet.
