I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.

The lawyer found me behind a strip mall restaurant on a Tuesday afternoon, my hands deep in a dumpster, searching for anything edible that hadn’t completely spoiled.

I was eighteen years old, nine days homeless, and hadn’t eaten a proper meal in forty-eight hours. The world had started to feel fuzzy around the edges, like a dream I couldn’t quite wake up from.

“Nathan Brooks?”

I spun around, ready to run. Being homeless had taught me to be wary of anyone who approached—police officers who told you to move along,