BlackKNIGHT: We've been playing chess for three months now.

Rogue2015: Very astute. Your turn.

BlackKNIGHT: That's a long time in the chess world. In fact, that's a long time in the real world.

Rogue2015: Thank you for pointing that out. Why don't you take your bishop out for a stroll? He can't hide back there all day.

BlackKNIGHT: He likes it back here. It's strategy. Three months, Rogue.

Rogue2015: Why do you keep saying that?

BlackKNIGHT: Because I think after that amount of time, I should know your real name.

Rogue2015: While you were busy reminiscing, I just won the game. Checkmate.

BlackKNIGHT: Ouch.

Rogue2015: I told you, you should have taken your bishop out.

BlackKNIGHT: I'll forgive you for beating me if you tell me your name.

Rogue2015: No.

BlackKNIGHT: Please?

Rogue2015: Double no. Do you want to play again or admit defeat?

BlackKNIGHT: I just want your name.

ZOE

Zoe King. That's my name.

Sixty-two inches of seventeen-year-old female living on the thirtieth floor of the Safe Zone, otherwise known as my family's penthouse apartment. It gave me a view of approximately seven of Colorado's peaks over 14,000 feet — none of which I'd seen up close because I hadn't left my house for 392 days.

That's right. I was that kid. The one my parents weren't expecting. The younger sibling, the baby, the one who should have demanded all the attention and made my parents laugh. The one who should have taken the world by storm.

Instead, I built paper art in the study and pretended I cared about my sister's cheerleading squad. I pretended to watch my mother's YouTube videos as she addressed the world like they were all her closest friends. I pretended to want to see my grandparents when they came back from their visits to Japan with Hello Kitty purses, thinking my sister and I were still five years old. I pretended to be able to breathe as the world closed in on me.

When there were two kids in a family and one kid couldn't leave the house without her chest clamping tight in panic like a bear trap, then you really only had 1.5 kids because .5 of one kid was defective.

That was me. Living as half the person I wished I could be.

My therapist claimed it wasn't literal when statistics said the average American family had approximately 1.5 children. I told her, when she came to my house because I couldn't go to her, "Welcome to the average American family."

JACKSON

The mobile blood collection bus was parked outside of the Denver Public Library today. They handed out orange juice and chocolate chip cookies once you'd had your blood drawn, but I wasn't eligible until I turned eighteen, and I didn't have parental consent.

Dad wasn't likely to be awake this time of the morning, let alone capable of putting pen to paper to give me permission, so I continued on without juice or snacks, even though the gnawing hunger in my stomach wouldn't go away.

Some things in life are guaranteed, but food isn't one of them.

I walked past the strange rock sculpture that reminded me of a futuristic Stonehenge and around to the entrance of the library, where they had just opened the doors. It was usually the same group of people, most with backpacks or suitcases because they didn't have anywhere to stay during the day. Homeless.

I was more discreet and left my belongings in the trunk of my car. All except for my backpack.

Inside the library, I waved to the guard and went for the holds on the main floor first. I gathered my items from the shelf: an astronomy study guide, three CDs, two sci-fi novels, and a book on chess techniques, because Rogue2015 was kicking my ass.

Then I rode the escalator to the second floor and entered the non-fiction section. My usual spot by the window was open, and I dropped my backpack there before nodding at Dale. He stocked the shelves with a monotonous swish and thud, settling books into place as he had every Saturday for the past year.

He never said anything, only continued the swish-and-thud motion until he reached the end of the shelf. Then he'd walk over, deposit something on my table, and move on to the next aisle.

Today, it was an apple and a book. Free $ for College for Dummies. I glanced up, but he'd moved out of sight.

I was pretty sure Dale knew I was homeless — though not in the traditional sense. Not like those guys who sat at stairwells on the 16th Street Mall to collect what they could from business people as they rushed to the Cheesecake Factory for lunch, or scrounged for leftovers from the groups that stopped to play on the stone chessboards lining the street.

No, I was homeless in the sense that I'd lost everything that symbolized home for me. And the place I had left ... wasn't for me anymore. Dad and I had an agreement. I'd stay out of his hair if he'd let me continue to use his address and mailbox for important things like school and my cell phone bill. Basically so the state didn't shove me into a foster home.

Of course, I wasn't sure how much of that agreement Dad remembered, since he'd made it while working toward an epic high on heroin.

Being homeless was a small price to pay for the peace of uninterrupted sleep. For the consistency of quiet instead of yelling. For my own memories of Mom instead of Dad's.

I sat in the chair next to the window and ate my apple. Outside, I could see my favorite sculpture, one with far more whimsy than futuristic Stonehenge. This one was called Yearling — which was, incidentally, its actual name, not the one I'd given it: Horse on Chair.

It was a twenty-one-foot-high red chair with a tiny horse on it. You could read about the history of the sculpture, right here in the library, by the man who'd created it, but I preferred to think he'd been inspired by the lack of oxygen in our Mile High City and had chosen to build something fun in his air-deprived stupor.

I opened my backpack and shuffled around for my laptop, one I'd gotten secondhand from my friend Robert. I shoved aside the case with the toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bar of soap. I'd find an empty bathroom later and clean up.

My computer connected to the library's wifi, and I brought up Chess Challenge. The scoreboard appeared on the right, a running tally of how many matches each gamer had won. Rogue2015 was still at the top, with BlackKNIGHT settled at the number four position. Damn, that girl didn't give an inch.

I used to play with all sorts of other people, even people in other countries. But once Rogue and I started a running dialogue along with our matches, I rarely played anyone else. According to her profile, she was only a year younger than me. I had no idea where she lived, though, at present, her location said Justin Bieber's house. Last week it had been 1776, NYC. Despite her clear sense of humor, she played the game like her life depended on it and had a penchant for telling it like it was. I admired her focus.

I needed that same kind of focus for college. I knew where I was going, I had a plan, but anxiety filled me every time I realized how easily it could fall apart. I cringed every time I had to lie and write down my...