Yuck! I’m so sick of these bland, grainy power bars. Yet I continue to gnaw away, bit by bit, hoping the flavor will somehow become tolerable. My best friend, Tiff, promises these are good for my tummy. Her smile beams down upon me whenever she comes home from the grocery store with the latest health food craze. Placebos disguised as crunch bars, which supposedly prolong my life. I’m a sucker for wanting to see Tiff happy, so I oblige her fountain of youth schemes. Tiff is the sweetest girl I know, which is ironic because her stepdad, Jack, is a huge jerk. He enjoys telling Tiff, constantly, that he’s going to “feed” me to the neighbors’ hungry dogs. Why? It’s like he spins the Wheel of Misfortune, only every winning turn equals terrorizing an innocent girl: a B Minus packed report card, not keeping her room clean to his militaristic standards, or for the plain fact that Tiff is “soft” for taking me in and caring for me when I was orphaned. “My home isn’t an orphanage, Tiffany,” or “you’re so sensitive, Tiffany, the world’s going to eat you alive,” are common phrases.