About a month after I bought my house, a teenage boy knocked on my front door and asked if I needed someone to mow the lawn for the summer.
He looked about fifteen. His T-shirt had faded from too many washes, his sneakers were worn thin at the toes, and beside him stood an old red push mower that looked almost as tired as he did.
“My mom and I live over at Meadow Ridge,” he explained, naming the trailer park a few streets away. “I’m trying to make some money before school starts.”
His name was Landon.