Homeless, not Hopeless

By Alexander Stoeber

I was homeless before I knew what that meant. The place I remember most is Lake Tulloch – doing my homework by flashlight, shivering, my shoulders searing from sunburn so deep we packed it in mustard to draw the heat out. The smell of mustard is still the smell of those nights. I would lie there dreading the morning, working out how I’d get to school: w…