Llewelyn said as he pulled up in front of Brandon’s aunt’s house. The street had been clogged with cars, most likely in relation to the music emanating from the house on the corner. Brandon remembered hearing verses of a disco song, which would, decades later, replay in his head.

His mother got out of the car. A gust of wind entered, rustling the plastic of the bags that held Brandon’s base camp. He put his hand on the door handle, reflexively, and then paused. He felt a sudden swell of rage. He briefly considered sliding over the bench seat, grabbing the nearest bag, and exiting the car through the opposite side.

The door on his side opened. His mother was looking at him with what he thought was an amalgam of sadness, apprehension, perhaps even regret.