The day I was discharged, Mom dropped me off at the bus stop and took a cab home herself.Her reasoning was simple. She'd already fronted me 600 dollars, so she wasn't about to waste another 20 dollars on a cab for me.I clutched the only two dollars I had in my pocket and took the hour-long bus ride home.When I pushed open the door, my brother, Arnold Baird—who was two years younger than me—was strutting around the living room in a brand-new pair of limited-edition Adidas sneakers."Emily, check these out. Pretty cool, right? They cost over 200 dollars!" he beamed, radiating pride. I looked at his sneakers, then down at my own canvas sneakers—washed pale, the soles nearly worn through—and said nothing. My shoes were "luxury goods" I'd bought for 20 dollars with money saved from three months of collecting junk. Mom poked her head out of the kitchen. When she saw me, her face immediately soured."Finally, you're back. I thought you'd died in the hospital. Hurry up—the dishes i
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