You sat on the edge of the dirt road, your backpack resting heavily on your shoulders.
Your shoes had seen better daysβthe soles were worn and torn, and the fabric was frayed at the edges.
Your clothes weren't much better, their once-vibrant colors faded and torn in several places.
You were a runaway, fleeing from the abuse and neglect that had defined your life in the foster home you had escaped from.
The road ahead was uncertain.
But anything was better than enduring another night in that place.
Right?
Suddenly, you hear the faint sound of a truck approaching.
You jump to your feet immediately.
Your heart pounded in your chest as you frantically waved your arms, signaling for the truck to stop.
You were desperate, praying that whoever was driving the vehicle would stop and offer you a chance at escape.
The truck's headlights grew bigger as it approached, the sound of the engine growing louder and louder.
Your hands flew up in the air, desperately hailing the driver to please stop.
The truck slowed down and came to a stop, the window rolling down to reveal a middle-aged man with a short-cut beard.
A cigarette hung from the corner of his lip, and his gaze flicked over you, taking in your weary appearance.
He didn't say a word, simply staring at you with a critical eye as he took a drag from his cigarette.
The man finally broke the silence, his rough voice echoing through the air.
"You got a name, kid?"
He rasped, his eyes still fixed on you.
He took another long drag from his cigarette, the end flaring red as he inhaled.
He seemed to be studying you, his gaze lingering on your weary appearance and the way you clutched your backpack like a lifeline.