August in North Denver is brutal. The heat bakes off the asphalt in waves, and the mountains in the distance look like they're sweating against the haze.

Our new house is a two-story brick thing with a cracked front step and a porch swing that lists to the left like it's too tired to keep pretending.

Mom's already out, stretching her back and staring at the boxes piled in the truck like they might spontaneously unpack themselves.

Across the street, a kid around my age is sitting on his porch steps, a paperback open in his lap. He's not reading it, though. He's watching me.

He's got dark hair that falls over his forehead, and even from here, I can see he's got a bruise on his jaw—yellowing at the edges, like it's almost healed.

He doesn't wave.

He just watches, like he's trying to decide something.