I was seventeen the summer my world imploded. We lived in a quiet suburb outside Portland, Oregon—trim lawns, kids on bikes, neighbors who waved from their driveways.
My parents had adopted a girl from Ukraine when I was twelve. Her name was Elena Novak—small, dark-haired, shy. We weren’t especially close, but we shared the same roof, ate at the same table, argued over the TV remote. Just normal sibling stuff. There were no warning signs of what was coming.
It began on a random Wednesday afternoon.
