"This is a work of fiction" It had been a few months since Anne had left us, before the finality of it set in. I had been understanding, but that didn't mean it hurt any less. She was tired of L.A., and living in our truck. There was no making it better for her, no matter how I tried. Claiming she was homesick, when the truth was so much simpler. Maybe not to say, just to understand. Anne was starving for a normal life. Without a doubt, not something I could ever have given her. In our time together she gained something much more useful. Several years prior I had taken her to street school.