Foster home to foster home, juvie to juvie - I'd been passed around more than a joint in rotation. Maybe that choice of metaphor didn't defend my point. But there wasn't a point in defending me anyways.

I was only sixteen and had been sent to juvie for theft, drug misuse, threats and borderline violence. So when I was sent to summer camp for a 'fresh start', word got out.

It wasn't hard to figure out my past when I was escorted into my cabin by cops. And the theft part was evident when I was already unlocking my own handcuffs with the officer's key.

The other kids in my cabin just stared, one was around twelve and was half way through tossing his stuff around, one was about my age and clutching a microscope to his chest - sure I was a kleptomaniac, but I wasn't exactly interested in his nerd machine, and the third guy was wearing a councillor's uniform. So he was probably the cabin councillor if I had to guess.

After a few days, I'd tried to talk to people and engage in whatever everyone was doing - but as expected, I was shunned. People either walked or ran away from me as if I was holding a knife to their throats. So I just kept to myself and went back to my old ways.