Prologue
When I Grow Up
Spencer
15 Years Old
This is all my fault. I'm the reason we're stuck here.
I glare at the stained ceiling tiles, their corners yellowed and curling, faint watermarks blooming with ghosts of whatever this building used to be. A one-story medical center, I think. Or a small clinic. Now it's Second Sunrise—a shelter for women and children fleeing abusive situations.
The fluorescent lights above hum, taunting me endlessly. Our “room” isn't a room at all. It's a ten-foot square carved out of a larger space by heavy beige curtains hanging from tracks in the ceiling. It looks like a triage center in a disaster movie—temporary walls, no doors, no locks. Just fabric that sways whenever someone walks too fast past it.
Two cots with thin mattresses take up most of the space. Scratchy gray blankets lay folded at the foot of each one. There's no dresser. No closet. Everything we own—everything we could carry in the middle of the night—is stuffed into two duffle bags and my backpack. Clothes wrinkled and jammed together. My mom's purse. A toothbrush in a plastic bag. That's it.
On the other side of the curtain, a baby starts crying. Somewhere farther down the hallway, a woman sobs quietly before trying to swallow it down. The sounds drift through the fabric like thick smoke. This is what I fall asleep to now. Crying women. Crying children. Whispers in the dark.
No names allowed. That was the first rule. You don't ask anyone their real name. You don't tell them yours. You're just… here.
And we're here because of me.
The events leading up to our current situation replay in my head on a loop.
I'm too young to legally work, but I know exactly what I'm going to be when I grow up. A lawyer. I've known it for years. When I turned fifteen, I walked into Schmidt & Associates one day like they owed me money. It’s one of the smaller law practices in Phoenix and was close to my home. I had a shot and I was going to take it.
The receptionist smiled at me, likely assuming I was some dumb kid asking for directions or to use the bathroom. “I need to speak to Mr. Schmidt,” I demanded.
The pretty brunette cocked her head. “Let's try that again. Hi, my name is Paula. And you are?”
“Future counsel. He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to intern here.”
Paula laughed, but she humored me. “I like your spunk. He will too. Come on,” she'd said. She led me back to the corner office where Mr. Schmidt sat behind a massive mahogany desk. He leaned back in his leather chair, hands clasped over his sizable belly, the buttons of his shirt stressed to their limit. He listened as I told him why he should give me an internship.
“You're aware you're not old enough to work here, son?” he'd said.
“Yes, sir. I'm not asking for pay. I'm asking for experience. I’ll file, make coffee, answer phones… whatever you need. I’ll even sweep and scrub toilets if you’ll teach me some things in return.”
He chortled—a deep, rolling laugh. After an hour-long conversation about my aspirations, he nodded. “You've got guts,” he'd said. “I like guts. You start Monday.”
And just like that, I took the first step toward my future.
I filed paperwork, organized case files, made coffee, and ran as many errands as I could on my bike. I sat silently in the back of consultations when they let me. It felt like the first real stride toward building a life that I had complete control over. My home life was anything but.
About six months into my internship, I was deep in a project archiving old files in the system when my phone rang. Dad. I ignored it. Once. Twice. The third time, I stepped into the small break room at the back of the office and answered.
“Dad. I'm working.”
His voice exploded through the phone so loud that Mrs. Carter, perched at the tiny kitchen table sipping coffee, jerked her head up. “I don't fucking care!” he roared. “I found the gay websites in your search history. You need to come home right now.”
My insides turned cold as my heart pounded in my ears. And beneath his shouting, I heard something worse. Mom. Screaming. Crying.
“Dad—” I started, but he'd hung up.
I'd considered not going. Riding my bike somewhere else. Sleeping at a friend's house. Waiting until morning. But I heard mom's scream again in my head. She struggles as it is. I don’t need to add to it.
I ran out of the office, jumped onto my bike, and pedaled hard, dread coursing through my veins.
I ditched my bike on the dead grass in front of our shitty house and ran to the front door. It was closed, but I could hear them through the thick wood. When I got inside, I found them in the living room. Dad's face was red, veins bulging. Mom was backed against the couch, hands raised—not to fight, just to shield herself.
