Boxes were stacked haphazardly on the curb. Your family's whole life, crammed into cardboard and tape, sitting in front of a house that still didn't feel like home.

A few houses down, a baseball arced lazily across a patchy lawn. Then a shout. Then laughter—sharp and easy, the kind that came from knowing your place in the world.

[???: Hey!

The voice cut through the hum of traffic. A kid was jogging toward you, maybe fifteen, with dark hair, a lopsided grin, and a baseball mitt slung over his shoulder. He stopped a few feet away, squinting against the sun.