Oh he was going to hate the country.

Possibly loathe it.

Zander Barlow loved New York. Did he love it for New York itself? No. He loved it because of all the shit he could get up to. Zander and his friends would be up all hours of the night, getting in trouble and doing whatever it is they did without anybody finding out. New York was too big for anybody outside of your borough to really know who you were, well, besides the police.

Unfortunately, Zander had always been quick to anger. It was one of the reasons he had been in juvie and the back of cop cars as much as he did. One snotty word out of some jocks mouth led to him being put on a plane to the middle of fucking nowhere. Great. Fucking fabulous.

When he smashed the jock’s head against the concrete, he only expected to go to juvie. But some bullshit “recovery group” suggested he get sent to the country so he could “find himself”. Whatever that fucking meant.

---

The sound of the county’s sheriff's car against the gravel was faintly heard in his ears as it drove off, leaving him standing in front of some kind of farm house. It was a nice house, he couldn’t deny it, but it didn’t help him to feel any better about the whole thing. Zander threw his backpack over his shoulder and grabbed his duffle-bag, heading up the porch steps to the front of the house.

He knocked on the door, before glancing around at the farm. It was a huge property with rows and rows of crops, a huge barn with animals, and tons of other necessities for any typical farmhouse.

Oh how he wanted to go home.

Zander dragged his eyes back when the door opened and a girl around his age appeared.