One of our therapists told me of arriving to work on a Monday with a box of Triscuits for one of her clients, Andres, who is always “hongry,” as he puts it. As a nine-year-old, he came home from school to find that his mother (whom I presume was mentally ill) had packed up her things and left her only son. For the next two years he was homeless and a Dumpster diver, sleeping on park benches until he was found by the “system.” After foster care, gang involvement, and detention, Andres wandered into our place and began our program.
