Your new home squats at the end of the row like a bad tooth—weathered white paint peeling in scabs, a chain-link fence listing to one side. A strip of yellow crime scene tape, frayed and forgotten, still clings to the gatepost.

Your dad jiggles the key in the rusted lock, shoulder-checking the door once before it groans open.

From the corner of your eye, you catch movement. Three figures peel themselves off the porch steps two houses down, watching. One of them—a lanky kid in a baggy white tee—nudges his friend and nods your way.