Chapter 1: Baptism by Fire

My mom remarried. At the wedding, she leaned down, her perfume sweet and desperate, whispering, "Just call him Dad, honey. Please."

I did what she asked, but Jason—the man’s son—shoved me into the swimming pool, and for a second, I thought I might not come back up. Chlorine burned my eyes, and the world turned blue and muffled as I flailed, lungs screaming for air.

He looked down at me, sneering. "You really think you belong here?"

My lower lip trembled, shame burning through me as I glanced desperately at my mom. But she just turned away, her face pinched with annoyance.

I was only seven then. My mom painted pictures of a bright future, promising that if I behaved and listened, I’d have all the burgers and fries I could ever want.

She’d talk about McDonald’s Happy Meals and a backyard with a swing set, and my stomach would twist with hope. I remember the way her voice would go soft, like she really believed it herself—that all our bad luck could be washed away with a drive-thru meal or a birthday party with real cake.

I craved it desperately—back in our rundown trailer park in rural Kentucky, I’d go months without even a bite of real meat.

Sometimes I’d stare out our window at the highway, watching semi-trucks roar by, and imagine they were carrying boxes of food somewhere I’d never see. My mom’s promises kept me going, but deep down, I knew the odds were stacked against us.

Instead, at her wedding, I nearly drowned.

The memory is sharp as broken glass: the shock of cold, the muffled thump of music under water, the world spinning while the grownups laughed and sipped champagne by the pool.

The sun glared off the white tent, the scent of roses and hairspray thick in the air, while laughter sparkled like broken glass. When they finally pulled me out, I searched the crowd for my mom, hoping for rescue, but she just looked away, face pinched with annoyance.

She dragged me to a closet barely big enough for a mop bucket, slammed the door, and the world vanished into choking dark.

It smelled like bleach and mothballs. My wet hair dripped down my neck as I pressed my knees to my chest, shivering. Outside, I could hear the wedding music, muffled laughter, and the sound of my mom’s high heels clicking against the tile.

She and her new husband flirted and whispered sweet nothings, while I lay inside, so hungry my head spun, crying in the dark.

The world outside kept spinning. I remember clutching my stomach, listening to the air conditioner kick on and off. My sobs were the only thing I could hear above the hum.

Someone pried open the window and tossed in a rock-hard dinner roll.

It landed near my foot, cold and stale, smelling faintly of freezer burn.

I was starving, but I still remembered to say, "Thank you."

My voice was small, scraping at the edge of hope, echoing in the darkness. Gratitude was habit—maybe if I was polite enough, things would change.

The person outside the door let out a cold laugh. "That’s not for you, freak. That’s for the mutts."

The roll hit the floor with a dull thud. I sat there in the dark, the laughter still ringing in my ears, and realized hunger wasn’t even the worst of it.