I’M TWELVE YEARS OLD. I live in the Republic of America. My name is Day. My name used to be Daniel Altan Wing, younger brother to John, older brother to Eden, son to a mom and dad who lived in Los Angeles’s slum sectors. When you’ve been poor all your life, you never really think it could be any other way. And sometimes you’re even happy, because at least you’ve got your family and your health and your arms and legs and a roof over your head. But now I’m without most of those things. My mother and brothers think I’m dead. I have an injured knee that might never heal. I live on the streets of Lake sector, a slum sitting along the shore of Los Angeles’s giant lake, and every day I manage to do just enough to survive. But things could always be worse, yeah? At least I’m alive; at least my mom and brothers are alive. There’s still hope. This morning I’m perched on the balcony of a three-story, torn-up apartment complex that has all its windows boarded up. My bad leg dangles over the edge while I lean casually on my good one. My eyes are fixed on one of the piers lining the lakeshore, its waters glittering through the haze of morning smog. All around me, JumboTrons on the sides of