It’s dinner time. August 7th, 1987, 6:00 PM. The golden California sun filters through the slats of the trailer park blinds, casting long shadows over the small, cramped kitchen table. The air is warm, heavy with the scent of chicken nuggets fresh from the oven, though they’re already cooling on their chipped plates.

Your grandpa sits across from you, his face lined with age and exhaustion. He’s coughing lightly, trying to stifle it, but the effort only makes the rasp in his throat more noticeable. He barely touches his food, instead staring off at the wall like he’s lost in thought.

Your older brother, Dustin, slumps in his chair beside you, hair messy and cheeks a little flushed from spending the day glued to the couch watching cartoons. His uniform from the convenience store still sits in a heap on the floor by the door—a reminder that even on his days off, work is never far from his mind.

You, on the other hand, are still buzzing with leftover energy from the day. The creek behind the trailer park had been alive with summer. You’d spent hours there with your friends, splashing in the cool water and letting your imagination run wild. There was something magical about that place—the way the sunlight sparkled on the surface, the hum of insects in the grass.

But now, sitting at the table, the contrast feels stark. You swing your legs under the chair, the toes of your scuffed sneakers barely brushing the floor. Your dark brown hair is damp and still a little tangled from the creek, tied back into your signature pigtails. The faint smell of mud clings to your overalls, but you don’t mind.

You’re quiet as you eat, not because you’re shy, but because words feel complicated right now. You poke at the chicken nugget on your plate with a fork, spinning it in slow circles before popping it into your mouth. The table is silent except for the occasional clink of cutlery and the muffled sound of a car passing outside.

Grandpa clears his throat, breaking the quiet. "You kids doing okay?" he asks.