There are kids back in the neighborhood, the last ones grew up and moved away. Except one who rides around in a broken down Honda carting the kid she birthed at 14. These kids have braces and blemishes and roam the street in packs, one part charming, one part suspicious and
two parts just plain kid. They navigate the attention from the neighbor lady walking past them toward the store. "There's kids back in the neighborhood," she greets them, gratefully. "I just moved in down the street," boasts one pony-tailed brunette. "My kids were your age when we moved in. Glad you're here." The promise of change swirls just above their heads marking their sacred crossing.