The 12th Anniversary Of My First Day

​The fridge and pantry had nothing I wanted. On the floor, beneath cardboard boxes and sneakers, sat the real meal: a bag of Lay’s (the closest seasoning I could find to The Whole Shabang) a half sleeve of Ritz crackers, and two cans, chicken and beans.

​Instinct kicked in. I dumped the crackers into the chip bag and kneaded them down to powder. A sharp fragment poked a pinhole through the silver foil. It was a minor, familiar frustration; my fingers twitched automatically, searching for the scrap of masking tape I used to keep pressed against the angle iron of my bunk frame.

​I rinsed the chicken and beans, tossing them with BBQ sauce, adobo, and onion powder. Running the sink until the tap steamed, I worked just enough water into the crushed crumbs to bind them into dough, smoothing it out flat before piling on the filling and a handful of shredded cheese.

​I wrapped it tight in aluminum foil. I told myself the foil was an upgrade, but I knew better. Institutional clear trash bag plastic (the thick stuff you can't buy at Walmart) was still the gold standard, even if steaming dinner in trash plastic used to feel like rock bottom.

​I set it in the air fryer. When I peeled it back, the dough tore and clung to the metal sheet, ruining the presentation completely.

​It tasted exactly right.

​Through the kitchen screen door, the yard was quiet under the sun. Today marked twelve years since my first day inside, and a little over two since I walked out. I stood by the counter, looking at the latch on the screen, letting my other self remember that it was unlocked.