Today I turn twenty-seven, and I feel nothing but anger and resentment. I never finished high school, or learned to drive. I haven’t talked on a telephone since I was sixteen. I have spoken to only four people in ten years, and one of them is my kidnapper. I wonder what it’s like to send a text or an e-mail or use an iPad or Twitter—all the stuff I see on TV. I hate him for sealing me off from the world, especially today, on another lost birthday.
