SmokeLong Quarterly

When I am thirteen years old, I fall into a despondent hopelessness which I am powerless to name. My adoptive parents—suffering with me through panic-laden, sleepless nights—finally take me to a psychologist. “What do you want?” he asks. I sit across from his desk on a too-soft leather chair. “I want to run,” I say. “Where?” he asks. I draw my legs up and cross them in front of me. “That’s just it,” I say.