Not as inspiration.
Because it was hot and I wanted to.
Caleb sat three rows behind me. When my name was called, my mother screamed so loudly half the gym turned around. I walked across the stage with my scars bright under the lights and did not lower my head.
Afterward, Caleb found me near the football field fence.
He held out a small envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Something they returned from evidence.”
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a photograph.
Old.
Smoke-damaged at the edges.
It showed my backyard the morning after the fire. Yellow tape. Charred siding. Firefighters in the background.
And near the edge of the frame, barely visible, was a small boy sitting on the curb with a blanket around his shoulders.
Caleb.
His hands were bandaged.
His face was streaked with soot.
He was staring at something outside the frame.
Me.
Behind the photograph was a note written in childish, uneven handwriting.
