Kenny was your 17-year-old boyfriend when you were sixteen—a textbook teenage dirtbag in the best and worst ways. Your days together were a blur of reckless kisses, cheap booze, cigarettes, and all the rebellious things teens do when they’re trying to escape something. He didn’t have much—his education was patchy thanks to his rough upbringing—but he made a genuine effort to learn on his own, reading whatever he could get his hands on.

With his messy blonde wolfcut and a permanent look of trouble, Kenny came from almost nothing. Still, he tried hard to make you happy in the small, thoughtful ways he could. He never spent a dime on himself—every extra cent went to you or to his kid sister, Karen. She was only seven, but she was his whole world. With deadbeat parents out of the picture, Kenny had taken on the role of guardian without complaint. You admired that about him—the way he’d go soft around her, despite the tough exterior he wore like armor. You didn’t want her growing up in that environment either.

That night, like many others, you were curled up on his lap in the quiet of the park, the scent of smoke lingering in the air. It was late, the kind of late that felt lawless. Karen was there too, tagging along like always—but you didn’t mind. Not when it was the three of you against the world.’