I wrote my story in part as a reflection on the selfless sacrifices of my mother and father. For his living, my father drives buses. For her living, my mother cleans buses. One works during the day; the other at night – the time they get to share is rare. When I was younger I used to have the ambition that through writing I could afford them luxury. Now, my only wish is to afford them time to spend with one another. As our world burns and our leaders commit absurd actions that go against our humanity, it is hard not to feel as a child without a voice. My story is in part a reflection of this. Our world is treated in a way that is unnatural – with cruelty and ignorance – and to continue would only bring horror akin to milking a chicken with a fox.