The dictionary defines "home" as a place of residence. But for a girl without one, home is not a structure; it is a memory of warmth she is desperately trying not to forget.

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Her name is Layla. She is seventeen. She has a grade point average of 3.9. And last Tuesday, she slept behind a dumpster because the women’s shelter was full and the night was too cold for the park bench.

She looked up, surprised anyone had stopped. "Because if I'm reading," she said softly, "nobody yells at me. If I have a book, I’m a student. If I don’t, I’m just a runaway. The book makes me look like I belong somewhere."

Don't look past. Look closer. And if you see a girl with a sign that says "I just want to read my book"—stop. Ask her the title. You might just change a life.

By RJ01174495