sank down in a chair, my knees giving out. And as I sat there, I struggled to get out my wallet. Tucked away in the back was the same picture I’d kept in there for seventeen years. It was old and worn, thoroughly aged by time. That picture I’d taken with me the night I ran away had become a lifeline—a reminder of better times. A reminder of a world where maybe Jackson and I had a future. I didn’t recognize the kid in the picture. Deep down I knew it was me, but I was so far removed from that kid that he could’ve been a stranger. But that big smile he wore as he slung an arm around Jackson’s
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