Copper Pennies

CHAPTER 2: RHONDA

BIA

By the time I make it back to my camp, it's much colder outside. It's not too long a walk from the store—maybe 35 minutes or so, but it's long enough that by the time I reach the woods by the junkyard, my fingers are stiff and icy and I can see my breath. My threadbare clothes do little to stop the freezing air from brushing its cold fingers over my skin. It doesn't help that I have almost no body fat to insulate me due to a year of malnourishment. 

It's not the 'healthy' kind of thin, either. You know, where people eat a balanced diet and do exercise to stay fit and trim. It's the 'easily-fatigued-lack-of-strength-get-sick-easy" kind of thin. Another happy side effect of that is always being cold.

Spring is supposed to be warm, I think, disgruntled. Screw you, Colorado.

I look around quickly, making sure nobody is watching before I duck through the small hole in the fence surrounding the junkyard, careful not to scrape myself on the sharply cut wire. Nobody ever really comes out here. People stopped bringing stuff to this place ages ago, but I still always check to make sure nobody is around, just in case. I can't afford to get caught right now. I can't get brought back to that hellhole of a foster home.

The Campbell's home. It's a dirty, messy, shabby house that reeks of alcohol and body odor. The room I stayed in was cold and drafty, mold growing across the ceiling in blobby patterns. 

Worse than the house though, is the son, Theo. He's why I can't stay. He's why I feel like I'm going to throw up whenever I think of Claire being in a foster home. He's the reason my body is littered with scars from cigarette burns. He's the reason for the bruises that would bloom on my arms and throat where he gripped me too tightly. 

I've stayed in many foster homes. Some were truly good people. Some were indifferent. Some were rude. But never had anybody even come close to being as bad as Theo.

And I can't leave. In any other circumstance, I'd probably tell the police what was happening and they'd relocate me as well as remove the Campbells from the system so that no more kids would end up with them. But I have to stay in Mogusa. It's where I grew up, and it's my only connection to Claire.

I lived there for almost a year up until I ran away a few weeks ago. I've run away from plenty of foster homes before. In fact, I've run away from the Campbell's several times before, but had to come back because I had no food and nowhere to stay. But this time will be different. I'll be more careful this time. Stay away from cops, manage my money carefully, only steal food in small amounts, and be choosy about who I pick-pocket. I'm not going back there. Ever.

Breathing shakily in the cold air, I walk up to my campsite, making sure everything is the same as how I left it. A pile of charred firewood sits in a large metal can, any warmth having faded hours ago. The broken down, abandoned sedan I've been staying in sits next to a pile of scrap metal. Her windshield is crisscrossed with a web of cracks, her seats are peeling, and her exterior is so rusty that it's impossible to tell what color she used to be, but she's been my home for the past few weeks, and I'm grateful for her.

"Hey there, Rhonda," I grin, rapping my knuckles on the roof as I walk around to the back. I pop open the rust covered trunk where I keep my supplies, wincing at the burning cold of the metal latch on my fingers. A few moments later, I slam the trunk shut with my elbow, my hands full of goodies. I plop down next to my pathetic excuse for a campfire and dump the contents of my arms into my lap—a half full box of matches, a can of beans, a bottle of water, a can opener, and a spoon. It's dinner time.

Twenty minutes later, I'm basically in homeless person heaven. The stiffness in my fingers has melted away, my stomach is full, and my eyelids are drooping pleasantly. Not yet ready to leave the warmth, I watch the embers of the fire burn, their glow reflected on the inside of the can. The smoke drifts up into the sky—little tendrils that weave lazily through the chilled air before dissipating into the stars.