Twelve years, two weeks, and a day ago:
A young boy, with messy dirt-blonde hair and big, inquisitive eyes was playing in the street. This wasn't particularly safe, but he was still only six. "An' a half!" he'd be quick to add. With the world being what it was, having a pile of dirt was something very few city kids would ever experience.
On this day, the sun was obscured by thick, matte-gray clouds, a common occurrence. The boy knew he would have to get inside soon, because everyone knew that the rain could strip your bones of flesh in moments. But for now, he had a pile of real dirt, and he intended to play in it.
Scraping the pile with a piece of plastic, he began making simple shapes, triangles and rectangles and little circles, as best as any young child can. His mother, a severe-looking woman in her early twenties, watched from the base of the apartment. Sighing, knowing he'd be in on time, she turned to go inside.
Just three blocks away, a haggard, tired man with bags beneath his