“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“That’s Alden.”

As my father preached on the virtues of loyalty, my mind drifted back to the night he threw me away. The rain-slicked pavement. My cheap duffel soaking through in a muddy puddle.

The Greyhound station under flickering fluorescent light. The taste of cold vending-machine coffee and the feel of wet socks on freezing linoleum. Watching doors open and close all night, feeling like the world had no idea what to do with a girl who refused to be sold.

At dawn, shivering, I had walked six blocks to a small, nondescript office wedged between a tax-prep shop and a pawnshop, an American flag drooping over the door in the damp air.

I didn’t walk through those doors because I was brave, or strong, or looking for glory. I walked in because I had nowhere else left to stand.