I don't want to die.

Sure, I know there's a hereafter and life goes on even once your body stops working.

And I know sometimes I might say I wish I were dead or think about dropping my dad's little transistor radio in the bathtub with me, but I don't mean those things.

Besides, the radio got destroyed when our house collapsed.

Living is hard, especially when it seems like everyone in their brother wants to kill you.

But I know in many ways I have things easier than a lot of people.

I have foster parents who care for me in their own weird eggy waffle way.

I have friends who watch out for me even though my one last living friend maybe he isn't a friend

anymore since I punched him in the face.

Sorry, Jamal.

There are people out there who don't have those things,

and they still get up and face each day and try to survive.

How can I do any less?

Well, I'm happy you're not giving up.

Says Roger in his weird tone, he dabs at my mouth of the sleeve.

It comes back bloody.

Was I talking loud? Yes you were! shouted someone. It craned my neck to look around. There's a guy sitting on the

ground with his knees up and he's holding a gun.

I think I've seen him before. Where have I seen him before?

Guthrie. He works with Detective Guthrie. I've seen him sitting at a desk at the police station.

I never talked to him before, but he's definitely a police person.

That's good, Roger says, rocking me slowly in his arms.

...