My family abandoned me on a summer trip as a cruel joke, laughing as they drove away and said, “Let’s see if she can handle it.” I never returned, and fifteen years later, when they finally found me,

The final memory I had of my family was their laughter drifting farther and farther away down a dusty road in northern Arizona.

I was seventeen, my skin burned from the sun, my throat dry, standing beside a cracked wooden sign that said: Mile 42 Desert View Trail. My stepfather, Richard Hale, had pulled the rental SUV onto the shoulder after I complained that my younger half brother, Mason, had dumped soda inside my backpack. My mother, Linda, let out a weary sigh as though I was the one causing trouble. My older cousin, Brooke, recorded the whole thing on her camcorder.

“Go cool off,” Richard said, throwing my backpack into the dirt.

I assumed he meant for a few minutes.

Then he got back into the SUV.

“Mom?” I said, moving toward them.

Linda looked at me from behind the open window. Her sunglasses covered her eyes. “Maybe this will teach you not to ruin everyone’s vacation, Erin.”

Mason stuck his head out from the back seat and smiled. “Let’s see if she can handle it!”

Brooke laughed so hard the camera trembled.

The SUV began to move.

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