"If you had asked me a couple years ago what I thought a homeless man's life was like, I'd had said it was probably boring, traveling and scrounging for scraps every single day with almost no contact, real contact or entertainment in the world. But now I can officially, personally say it is anything but." "Interesting. And how would you describe your experience on the streets of California?" my therapist asks. I pause. "Every day is like its own challenge. Like a video game or something that gets harder every level. A game I had to play over three hundred times," I say. I fumble with my hands, trying to find anything to add, but I'm blank. I watch as my therapist quickly jots down everything I say on her little clipboard.

Finally, I find a few words. "Every day was its own fight for survival. I needed warmth, to find food and water, scrounge and work for money, over and over and over again. There were even a few days I was tempted to steal, but I never let myself stoop that low." I try to explain, and my therapist looks up. "I see. And can you tell me how you got your scars? The town and the paper seem to think of you as some kind of hero," my therapist says calmly. A hero? What could I have possibly done to deserve such a title? I ran away from home.

I grab another wipe from the table and dab my black eye. My face is sore, my lip swelling, my cheek filled with a long scar that flows like a river. "I guess so," I say slowly. My therapist sets down the clipboard and leans forward, jamming her elbows into her knees. "Do you mind if I record this conversation?" she asks. I slowly nod, and she pulls a small recorder from behind her table before setting it down and pressing the familiar red circle record button.

"I am here with sixteen-year-old Joel Thatcher at the CACP, California Child Psychology Clinic. Joel, are you aware you are being recorded?" My therapist announces the words as she straightens her back. I nod. "It needs to hear you, sweetheart." "Yes, I'm aware." "Okay." She leans forward again. "How does a fifteen-year-old survive on the streets for almost a year?" she asks. I correct her. "I'm sixteen." "Yes, but you were fifteen when you ran away, were you not?" she asks. I nod, and my therapist sighs softly. "Okay, let's start from the beginning," she says. I instantly know where this is going.

"Why did you run away from your uncle's house in the first place?" I sigh and pause, searching for a full answer. "I felt unappreciated. Not important. You know, like when no one treats you like your opinion matters. I just couldn't take it anymore. And he hit me all the time." "Why did you never report anything?" she asks. I pause. "This is private, right?" I ask. She nods. "I kind of felt guilty, in a way. Like I deserved it. It's hard to explain," I try to explain. "Okay... and your guardian tells me you are authoring a book on your experience. Is this true?" she asks. I nod. "Yes, it's true." "What do you plan on calling it?" she asks. I pause once again without an answer. "I don't know yet."

"Is everything in the book true word for word?" she asks. "Yes ma'am," I say, bumping my knees together. My therapist's turn to pause. Finally, she seems to find something to say after a short glance at her notes. "Mister Thatcher, do you mind sharing your story with us... with me?" She slides the recorder closer subtly. I turn my head and look out the window, watching the droplets of rain slowly run down like they're in a race. "It was... June, I believe. The day before I ran away..." I start.

Summer

As I sat on the bus watching the trees pass by while my friend Gus ran my ear off, the bus pulled to a stop by the all-too-familiar railroad tracks that separated the school and my house perfectly down the middle. Exactly two miles from here to the school on one side, exactly two miles from here to my house on the other. That pretty much covered the whole town that I lived in. As the bus picked up another poor victim of my school in the morning routine, Gus went silent for a moment, then tapped my shoulder. "Are you okay? You're awfully quiet today," Gus said, now shaking my arm. "I'm fine," I assured him. "Just thinking."

"Thinking? Since when do you think? About what?" Gus asked. I shuffled in my seat away from the window so I could face him. "Nothing, really," I say, trying to dodge the question. Truth is I was already plotting my escape from the slave life that was my uncle's house. Gus frowned, slightly confused, but decided not to press on. "So, is that Ashley girl still troubling you?" he asked. I quickly nodded. Ashley was the typical hot girl of the school. Long blonde hair, popular, and for some bizarre reason, hated my guts. She seemed fine to everyone else, but when I'm around, she's a whole different person. Me being me, I of course liked her because she was way out of my league. Then again, so did every other guy in the grade. Who am I kidding? The whole school.

"This might sound weird, but have you ever wondered what it was like to live alone?" I asked. Gus paused in thought. "Not really. Why?" he asked, dropping his heavy backpack on the floor with a thump. "No reason. Like I said, just thinking," I spoke.

Now, Gus is my best friend. I know I can trust him with anything. He already knew about the situation with me and my uncle. But I feel like if I told him what I was planning, he'd have tried to stop me. So, the rest of the ride was pretty silent up until it was time to get off at school. We agreed to meet at our usual spot after school and split ways, because unfortunately we had no classes together that year.

I met Gus in third grade when we had our first class together. I don't know why, but he was just one of those people you could relate to. Where you meet them and something just clicks, and all of the sudden you are hanging out at dances because neither of you have a date, or you are hanging out at your usual spot that you meet him every day at, knowing that for some reason, you two have that unspoken bond where you can suddenly trust him with your life. It doesn't matter what you call it; Homie, bro, best friend, whatever. Either way, he's that one guy everyone has where he's just different. Better.

After school and a quick talk to my teacher about my declining grades, I stood by the door and waited for Gus to arrive, which he did right on time. We executed our little handshake and slipped past the side of the building while everyone stood on the black top waiting to board their buses. We made our way to the back door that, for some reason, our school never locks, and we entered.

The door led right to the gym, and a little exploring in our freshman year caused us to discover this spot behind the gym's stage, which has a small area with a ladder. Every day after school we climb the ladder, which leads to the area above the gym. Kind of like a second floor mixed with an empty attic. There's a small trap door that we can easily swing open, which we did every day, since the lock they used was crap and was made of practically plastic, and we sit on the flat roof and look over the town while we sip canned sodas and talk about whatever for around an hour. My uncle doesn't care when I come home late. Well, he does, but it made no difference either way. He was going to find something to yell at me for when I came home regardless.

Anyway, once we made it to the roof, Gus supplied the soda, we dropped our bags off, and we sat down. We talked about things we equally liked for quite a few minutes. One of my favorite memories of me and Gus was when we found a creek in the woods and decided to attempt fishing. Yes, attempt. What had happened, you see, was he got permission to use his father's fishing equipment. The problem was, I'd never been fishing alone, and he'd somehow forgotten to bring bait. So, after scrounging around for worms, we finally found one. One. We decided on 'his father's equipment, his worm'. So, he goes first. His pole wasn't in the water for five minutes when we heard a buzzing noise. I'm looking around and notice a wasp nest in a tree nearby. This idiot thinks it to be a good idea to say hey! Ima throw a rock at it!

So, he hands me the rod and chunks a small stone. I kid you not, those wasps, or bees, whatever they were, flew right past me, not even caring about me, and chased him right into the creek. He sits there for about a minute before he can't hold his breathe no longer and pops his head above the water, only to find the bees/wasps were still there, waiting. He got torn up that day, and it was hilarious. Long story short, we didn't catch any fish.

Eventually, we were done talking on the roof of the school about whatever it was that I can't seem to remember. So, we sat there for a few minutes wondering about what to say now. Finally, he finds some unused words and asks me about the game. The game, as he and I called it, was that one night every season where my uncle and many other guys sit around my uncle's place, drink beer, eat chips and watch, well, the game. Specifically American Football. Eventually, it was time to split, and Gus and I parted ways. It would be the last time I see my friend in a long time.

As I walked up the driveway past the steppingstones and way-too-tall grass, before I could even grab the door handle the door swung open, a large hand tightly gripped my shoulder, and slung me inside. I fell onto my back by the couch as my uncle towered over me. "Why are you coming home so late?" my uncle boomed, shining a dirty grimace down at me. "You been with that boy again, haven't you? This is why your grades are steadily declining." My uncle reached down and snatched me to my feet, pulling my bag off my shoulders. He fumbled, clearly drunk as he unzipped my bag and began to rummage around. Soon he gave up digging and just dumped my bag's contents all over the living room floor. He looked at the pile of paper and snatched a book from the pile. "What's this?" he asked, shoving the book in my face.

"It's a book," I said bluntly. He unsurprisingly raised his hand and brought it across my face. "Don't play smart with me, boy. If you spent more time studying instead of reading-" he turned and looked at the title, "The Recipe for Survival, you wouldn't be failing algebra!" He shouted as he slammed the book on the floor. "Pick this up and get food ready. My friends are on their way," he growled before storming off to the bathroom to probably throw up. I sighed as I picked up my things before going to my room, dragging my bag behind me. My parents had died in a car crash, and my uncle was regrettably the only family I had. So, I was forced to live with this snob I had never really met prior to being thrown into being an orphan.

I slung my bag onto my bed and dropped down in frustration. I had been planning this for weeks, but part of me wanted to just forget the plan and walk straight out the door. But I knew it was more complicated than simply leaving my uncle behind. I turned and slung my closet door open, pulling out a small metal container. This wasn't just a metal container, but an Army-issue ammo box that my mom got as a birthday gift from a thrift store down the street. Inside the ammo box were all kinds of things I had saved up for this occasion. I originally stocked up the box for emergencies and such but turns out it was the perfect survival kit for what I was about to do. Trying to control my anger, I dropped the ammo box by my door and thought about my plan that I had so carefully planned out for the past few weeks, making sure it was flawless.

Tonight was the night the football game was playing, and our team had made it to the championship game. My uncle would have brought his friends over, just like I planned, and would have made me do all the dirty work like fetching beers or snacks because I was practically his slave while he sat on the couch getting fat living off Doritos and living his best life without a job. I went ahead and snagged my journal from my desk as well. Well, at the time it was a notebook. But I figured I could use this to help me along the way in case I needed to keep track of something, write a reminder, or just simply write an entry. I dropped the notebook by my ammo box and reached into the closet once more.

Part of me felt sick about leaving. A small part of me, that is. But at the same time, I had never felt so sure of anything else in my life up until now. In my mind, I knew my uncle would likely not even care. Another part of me wasn't sure how I would survive alone, or how long I would even be by my lonesome. I felt it was a risk I was willing to take. I slid my spare backpack from my closet and set it aside. It had been hanging on a nail on the inside of my closet that was there when I moved in. This bag wasn't like my school backpack. This was more of a canvas backpack. It had come with the ammo box and had so many pockets of varied sizes that it would act perfectly for my plan. I pulled the ammo box from the floor and stuffed it into the bottom of my bag. The ammo box had some heft to it, and that was on account of all the things I had crammed in there. I honestly don't know how I managed to fit it all in there. When you hear all the things I had put in there later on, you'll see why. But somehow, I made it work.

That night my uncle had gone and perched himself on his couch, which faced away from the kitchen. So, when he and his friends had gotten settled, I quickly snuck into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. They had the TV cranked up so loud they couldn't even hear the fridge open. I quickly claimed a few bottles of water from the fridge and canned foods from the cabinet before returning to my room and stuffing them in my bag. I slid a sheet of paper from my desk and quickly grabbed a pen.

Dear Uncle ____,

I'll cut straight to the point. I can't take it anymore. You treat me like a slave. I have no contact with the outside world, and no matter what I do I'm a failure. And I'm sick of you hitting me all the time. I come home and you literally search for something to blame me for. I could do something perfectly how you wanted, and you'll create something to blame me for. I'm tired of it. Sorry, but I'd be pleased if I never saw you again. Don't come looking for me.

Sincerely, your little failure, Joel.

I pulled the note from my desk and taped it to the front of my bedroom door. The only reason I hadn't run away before was because I had worried what it would do to him. But now, I was convinced he didn't care. I glanced at the clock. 9:00. Perfect.

Now would be the time the friends leave, and my uncle passes out. My uncle's a deep sleeper. A really deep sleeper. The kind who's snore you can hear from space. So, when he dozed off, I placed the bag on my bed and prepared myself further. I dropped my tennis shoes and I slid on my brown leather work boots, along with a pair of fresh blue jeans, a white t-shirt, a brown belt with my name carved into it on the inside, and a brown leather holster I had taken from my uncle's room that he had forgotten he even had. It was a chore for the holster, as I had to dodge piles and piles of clothes that surrounded his bed and bedside drawer.

It was about now I heard the familiar sound of my uncle snoring on the couch. I went ahead and stuffed a few last things into my bag, like a black beanie, gloves, and a few more white t-shirts. I looked around my room one last time, then grabbed the front door's doorknob and slung the door open, walking outside without looking back. I would have grabbed a phone if my uncle allowed me to have one. And that was it. I was off. So, after so many weeks of pain and torture, I set off in the middle of the night with a black pellet Colt 1911 Co2 pistol strapped to my side, a thick heavy bag on my shoulders, and the weirdest feeling I have ever felt...

That night I wandered down the street until splitting off into the woods. After about an hour I found the creek Gus and I had found. Even though it was midst of night, and the sky was pitch black, I remembered a hill nearby with a road crossing over it that led to an overhang or bridge. Underneath the bridge was a railroad track that hadn't been used in years. So, at the tracks at the bottom of the bridge and hill, where all the brush and bushes and trees so thin I could wrap my hands around grew, I found a small spot. And before I knew it, I had dozed off.