The dirt is caked beneath her fingernails from scratching the floor, the floor that's rotting away. The floor she pleaded and begged on, the floor she started her life on. She had been sitting there for hours, she had no where else to go. 

          *Just a few months earlier* 

She walks in a haze to the front of the funeral parlor, her hood is up, no one can know sh'es here or they'll take her away, she won't be another foster kid shuffled in and out of homes where the people don't care. She has made her mind. She'll survive.