People looked at us like we were invisible, as if we didn’t matter. But I guess that’s how it goes when you live in an old, rust-stained trailer on the side of an old highway that barely sees traffic. My name is Leo. I was 10 years old in the year everything changed.
That morning had started like all the others: bare feet on cold linoleum, a whiff of instant coffee, and Mom humming to herself even though there was nothing much to smile about. The wallpaper had long peeled off, and the refrigerator wheezed as if it were on life support. Still, it was home.
My little sister, Tina, was five at the time. She was still asleep on the fold-out mattress when I crept past her with my backpack slung over one shoulder and an old skateboard tucked under my arm.
I’d found the board behind the dump a few days earlier. The grip tape was worn, and the wheels were mismatched, but I figured maybe someone at the flea market would toss a couple of dollars my way for it.
My mom, Amanda, 32, kissed my forehead as I stood by the door. Her eyes had that soft sadness I’d gotten used to, but she forced a smile.
“Be safe, baby,” she said. “Don’t let anyone cheat you out of what it’s worth.”
“I won’t,” I promised, even though I wasn’t sure what it was worth at all.
The walk to the flea market took almost an hour. We lived on the outskirts of town, past where the sidewalks ended. It was the same road my dad used to drive down before he was killed in a logging accident.