Anne’s head throbbed from the pain of memories—her mother’s hard palm cutting the air and thudding her face, with the words little cunt attached to her whiskey-stained breath. Pale hands shook, remembering the time her father gripped her wrist at the circled burner glowing a skin-scalding orange, a fork pressed to it until it smoked, then branding her flesh until her eyes watered and she screamed, his beer breath spitting, That’ll remember you to be sure dishes is clean. Work all goddamned day and come home to this bullshit.

Today came a blitzkrieg of words exchanged in anger: “Little bitch, skipping school again, gonna turn into a goddamned retard!”

“Better than a drunk!” Anne retorted. Her words sharp. She had learned that in this house, when you got hit, you hit back even harder with whatever was handy.

The Jim Beam bottle missed her head and exploded like a rotten tomato against the faded-blue kitchen wall. The cider-colored liquid sprayed the dishes piled along the scuffed Formica countertop, soaking the crumbs of PB&J sandwiches that had been eaten down to the crust, Lay’s chips that had been crunched, Jack’s pizzas that had been pilfered of their toppings, sticky cups of Mountain Dew that had been spilled. From the unwashed clothing that lay on the cracked tile flooring, Anne grabbed shirts, pants, socks, bras, and panties.

Anne was done. Had been planning for months to pack what little she had and run. Run as far as she could from this shithole that had been her home since birth. She and Trot, her best friend, had talked and talked. Wanting to jettison themselves from their shit lives, from her abusive domestication and Trot’s longing to be understood. He had moved from El Paso, Texas, to Johnson City, Tennessee. Had been caught hopping trains off and on, had run with a group of dropouts who called themselves the Recon Rejects. Trot knew the ins and outs of freight hopping. How to hop one, when to hop one, and where to hop one. He knew where they would go: Louisiana, he’d said. There they would find a jungle where the hobos, dirty kids, and crust punks camped out. Earn their keep during the day: panhandling; flying a sign; dumpster diving; running trash cans for food, water cups, or clothing. Get accepted into a real family by people who understood them instead of abusing them with harsh words, trying to change who they were. No more dirty dishes, bloody fists, or flesh singed with eating utensils.