My name is Caleb Mercer, and the year all this happened, I was living in the hills outside Black Ridge, Kentucky, in a county where most folks either worked themselves half to death, drank themselves numb, or left as soon as they could. I would have left too, if I’d had a car, a license, and somewhere to go.
Instead, I had a backpack, eighty-three dollars in cash, a sleeping bag that smelled like wet dog, and a face that still made strangers say, “You look too young to be out here alone.”
They were right.
But being too young never stopped bad things from happening.
My dad had died when I was ten in a logging accident that everyone in town still talked about like it was yesterday. My mom lasted another five years before pills hollowed her out so bad that even when she was sitting in the same room, it felt like she was already gone. Then came Darnell, her boyfriend. He had prison tattoos, a laugh like broken glass, and a way of making every room feel smaller when he walked into it.
