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.

other homeless people who might try to take what little you had, business owners who saw you as a problem to be removed.

But this man didn’t look like any of those threats. He looked like a lawyer from a movie, all pressed suit and confident posture, expensive watch glinting in the afternoon sun. His leather briefcase probably cost more than my car had.

“Who’s asking?” I managed, my voice cracking from disuse.

“My name is Richard Hartwell. I’ve been looking for you for three days.” He held up a