• “Darn,” I said, crawling out of my bed, the wooden floorboards creaking under my weight, and looked out the window, standing as close as I could stand to the old heater, the snow had frosted over night on the edge of the window. Christmas again. How could such a wonderful holiday be so miserable for some people? I could imagine families sitting around the Christmas tree, opening presents wrapped in bright colors, the delicious aromas seeping in from the kitchen. The thought of it made me shudder. I was dropped off here at the St. Juniper’s Orphanage three years ago on Christmas morning. We’ve never had any presents, delicious food, or anything except for each other. The only thing we got was the day off from our studies, but Sister Marina wasn’t very enthused about giving us. I looked under my bunk because I thought I heard Lucy, a little five year-old, turn over and moan, although she was still asleep. I looked back out the window, watching the snow fall lightly onto the concrete jungle of New York. I always wondered why my parents brought me to this orphanage instead of one in Boston, where they had lived, or why they brought me. I guess I will never know. I only knew one thing and that was they had been murdered three weeks after. I quit trying to answer those questions two years ago, after I turned ten. Nobody ever gets adopted after that, because nobody wants a child that age, most parents want to watch the child grow up, not live with them for a few years just to move out.