After school and diner shifts, she scrubbed and hauled out rotted cushions, sealed the roof, painted the tin shell with two cans of “oops” paint. The color was bold and defiant—sunny yellow against our gray street.
Last Tuesday, I saw her carrying a duffel and a cardboard box from her father’s place into the caravan. She was moving in.
My heart sank. A teenager in a tin box. I grabbed my toolbox.
“Just checking the wiring,” I muttered to my wife.
I knocked.
“Maya? It’s Frank. Your father home?”
“No, Mr. Henderson. He’s at work. Do you… need something?”
“I’m an old electrician. Thought I’d check that cord you’re running. Don’t want you burning the place down.”
The door creaked open.
