The lawyer found me behind a strip mall restaurant on a Tuesday afternoon, my hands deep in a dumpster, searching for anything edible that hadn’t completely spoiled. I was eighteen years old, nine days homeless, and hadn’t eaten a proper meal in forty-eight hours. The world had started to feel fuzzy around the edges, like a dream I couldn’t quite wake up from.“Nathan Brooks?”I spun around, ready to run. Being homeless had taught me to be wary of anyone who approached—police officers who told you to move along, other homeless people who might try to take what little you had, business owners who saw you as a problem to be removed.
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