Scrap was a fitting enough nickname. I was kicked out of my parents house at eighteen. Begging for scraps until I was twenty-one. At twenty-two they found me looking for scarp parts. I fixed up the generator to make up for the stuff I stole. A few months later I was the only one left alive. They still walk around of course. Sometimes they even give me tools. I’m still looking for scraps. Scraps of food, scarp medal, scarps of clothes on bodies. I’m not like the others. I think that’s why I survived this long.