Weeds of Detroit by Misty Provencher

I turned seventeen less than two months ago.A week ago, I ran away from home, in the country outskirts of suburbia. Now, I’m living at a hotel in downtown Detroit.At home, you could walk to the corner store when it was dark outside and hear frogs croaking in the ditches on either side of the dirt road. At the hotel, you don’t go out at night. All you hear is squealing tires and curses shouted from broken windows. At home, we didn’t lock our front doors at night. There are three locks on my hotel room door. One in the knob, a chain, and a dead bolt. I’m not sure it’s enough to keep everyone out.At home, I’d be starting my Senior year in high school.Here, I’m learning what it takes to survive.I hope I make it to eighteen.