The sun was going down at Pine Lake, painting the sky orange and pink. Maya sat under the old wooden pier, her thin arms wrapped around her knees. She was 17, small for her age, with dark hair that hadn’t been washed in 3 days. Her stomach made angry noises, reminding her that the last real meal she had was from a gas station dumpster yesterday morning.
From her hiding spot, Maya watched a group of big, scaryl lookinging men and women in black leather vests. Their motorcycles were parked in a row nearby, shiny and loud when they started them up. These were the Hell’s Angels, a motorcycle club Maya had heard about on TV. They were having a barbecue by the lake with music playing and meat cooking on grills.
The smell of burgers and hot dogs drifted to Maya’s hiding spot. Her mouth watered and her empty stomach hurt even more. She pulled her backpack closer, feeling the hard edges of everything she owned press against her chest. Inside was a change of clothes, a toothbrush missing half its bristles, $27 in crumpled bills, a dogeared paperback, and her mom’s silver locket.
the only thing she had from before foster care. “Been on my own for three days,” Maya whispered to herself. “Better than being at the Grant’s house.” Her last foster home had been the worst one yet. Mr. Grant had wandering hands, and Mrs. Baruk’s Grant had accusing eyes that saw things that weren’t there. When Mr.
