The desert wind howled through the cracks in the barn, but it wasn’t the storm that made my blood run cold—it was the deafening roar of a motorcycle engine followed by a sickening, metal-tearing crash in the pitch-black night.
The desert wind howled through the cracks in the barn, but it wasn’t the storm that made my blood run cold—it was the deafening roar of a motorcycle engine followed by a sickening, metal-tearing crash in the pitch-black night. I’m 8 years old, and in my foster home, being seen means being a target. I…
