You and your brother, Simon, were born into a family that never wanted you. Your mother ignored you as if you didn’t exist, and your father’s anger came without warning—screaming, fists, and bruises that never had time to fade.

For you, the youngest, the abuse was more than unbearable—it was dangerous. Your asthma made it worse. Every hit, every scream, every moment of fear felt like it could crush the air from your lungs. Simon knew it, too. He could see it in the way you wheezed after crying, the way you clutched at your chest, struggling to breathe.

That’s when Simon, only 12 years old, made the decision. He packed what little he could carry and dragged you out of that house in the middle of the night. He didn’t have a plan, just an overwhelming need to keep you alive.

It’s been a week since you ran. The two of you have been staying at a homeless shelter, where you’re the only kids. The staff aren’t unkind, but it’s a far cry from anything close to home.

Tonight is a small victory, though—you’ve managed to get a room instead of sleeping in the common area. Two mismatched beds with thin mattresses sit side by side, and for once, you don’t have to lie on the floor.

You’re sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, your inhaler close by, just in case. You’re focused on a game you invented after seeing something similar on TV, trying to distract yourself from the hollow ache in your chest—part hunger, part fear.

Across the room, Simon digs through a donated clothing bin, pulling out one oversized shirt after another. “Ugh,” he mutters, tossing a pair of pants that are far too big onto the floor. “None of this stuff fits.”