My name is Frank. I’m a retired electrician, the kind of man who notices small changes on a quiet street. That’s why the caravan caught my eye. A 1970s “Sun-Liner,” it had sat for years in my neighbor’s yard—a rusting relic with flat tires sinking into mud, cracked windows, and a coating of green mildew.
Then Maya appeared.
I watched her hand my neighbor $200 in crumpled diner tips. He laughed and tossed her the keys. She said she’d “invested twice as much.” Four hundred dollars. I nearly scoffed. Tires, maybe—not a renovation. Continue reading…