My name is Frank. I’m a retired electrician—the kind of man who notices when something on a quiet street changes. That’s why the caravan caught my eye.
It was a 1970s Sun-Liner that had sat for years in my neighbor’s yard: rusted seams, flat tires sinking into mud, cracked windows fogged with mildew. A forgotten thing.
Then Maya appeared.
She’s seventeen and lives three doors down with her father in a cramped one-bedroom rental. Her mother died of cancer two years ago. Medical bills swallowed everything—house, car, savings. Her dad works two jobs and sleeps on the sofa so Maya can have the bedroom.
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