Page 28

Redwood Run has pride. The quiet kind. Dangerous kind. Folks would go without before they asked for help. Kids would wear sleeves too short and shoes too tight because their parents smiled and said they were managing.

Managing is a word that covers a lot of suffering.

“Give me the heavy routes,” I say.

Mars’s smile softens.

I point at her. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you just won something.”

“I did.”

Fletcher slapped the workbench. “Softie.”

I turn my head.

He lifts both hands, burrito included. “What? We all know.”

“You know nothing.”

“We know you have a box of sentimental junk at home.”

My shoulders go still. Wayne coughs, not well enough to hide the laugh. Rex looks away, which means he knows too.

Bastards.

“It’s not junk,” I say.

Fletcher’s grin widens. “Ah, see? Confirmation.”

Mars leans in, interested. “What sentimental junk?”

“Nothing,” I say.

Wayne says, “Mementos.”

Mars presses her clipboard to her chest. “That’s actually very sweet.”

“It’s evidence,” I say.

Evidence that I have a life now. A life in one place, not the same as my past where people disappeared. Homes disappeared. Foster placements. Names on mailboxes. Beds that were yours until they weren’t. Adults who promised temporary and meant disposable.

A ticket stub proves a night happened.

A wooden bead from a kid’s broken bracelet proves someone pressed it into my hand and said keep it.

A photo, a note, a tiny wrench… those are anchors.

Not junk.

But nobody else needs to know that.