[2012] 27yrs old.
I buzzed the doorbell on an apartment building in an upscale neighborhood in San Francisco. Waiting, I looked around awkwardly. Still waiting, I had no idea why I was so nervous. Five minutes later, a woman with a black eye silently marched down the hall stairs holding the hand of a red-headed preschooler. She opened the door for me.
Solemnly, we took to the ascending stairs and found ourselves in the apartment. The walls were scratched as if they'd been keyed like a car door. The curtains were ripped off the rods, and cupboard doors were dangling by a single hinge - if they were lucky. The floor was a sea of broken toys, with a shore of discarded chicken nuggets.
"The kid punched me in the face," the woman confessed, "I need to call his Dad, he locked us out of the bathroom." The freckle-faced boy smiled, and laughed maniacally. He grabbed the phone from her ear, and respectfully addressed his father:
"When ya comin' home, asshole?"
(This was the first day on the job as a Behavior Specialist.)
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