My Twelve Street-Grown Brothers

My biological mother thought my six-year-old self was a drag on her chances of marrying into a wealthy estate. So, she dumped me under a highway overpass.

To get a bite of food, I grabbed the leg of a passing street punk and wouldn't let go.

"Hey, big brother, your boots are dirty. Let me wipe them for you."

"Hey, big brother, are you thirsty? I can go steal some water for you."

A bunch of street punks looked down at me. "Damn, this kid knows how to hustle. Fine, let's keep her. She's our little sister now."

From that day on, I had twelve gangster brothers.