In my novel, Pop, I have explained that we moved several times. In one of the places we rented, there was also an alcoholic that lived upstairs. My sixth grade year we lived on Spring Street in Peoria. We lived in the downstairs of a house that was converted into a duplex. The woman upstairs told Mom that her husband was an alcoholic and warned her to be careful. Apparantly, one time when he was drunk, he had his gun out (yikes, another drunk with a gun…Pop had one, too.) and accidently shot a bullet through the floor. Needless to say, my sister and I were scared. When we knew he was drunk, such as shouts and loud thuds and things breaking upstairs, we would go outside if it was nice. If it was late or bad weather, we would inch around the rooms with our back against the wall. We figured there was a smaller chance of a bullet coming through our ceiling where there was a wall, as opposed to the center of the room. Thankfully, we never found out. Also, in the first chapter of the book, I describe my sister and I hiding in a closet while our step-dad yelled and was abusive to our mom. Is it no wonder that I compare it to hiding in a foxhole, seeking safety from the shrapnel and exploding missles in our home? There is someting to be said for peace, especially for two little girls caught in the crossfire.