Justin stands smoking a cigarette (he's 8,) on the corner of Kemp and Kensington. He wears a tattered blue Adidas shirt, black jeans, the right leg ripped from knee to ankle, and sneakers 3 sizes too big. He picks up a medium size rock, weighs it in his hand with a slight jostle, he then turns toward the garage behind him and throws, as hard as he can, squarely hitting the one remaining window. He laughs with the sound of shattering glass. His mother and some man he just met this morning come out of the house next to him, mother shouting, man with beer in one hand, cigarette in the other.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His mother yells.
Justin just stares at her.
"Get in this fucking house right now!"
On his way into the house he grabs the beer out of the mans hand, takes a long drink, and while returning it asks, "Hey man, can I have a cigarette?"
The man, nearly as tall as the door frame, tattoos peeking out from the edges of his clothes looks at the boy, then at the boys mother, she shrugs her shoulders. The man takes out his pack of Marlboro Reds, opens the top and tips two cigarettes into the boys waiting hand.
"Really, two?" Asks Justin.
As Justin walks into the house, toward his hovel-like room he holds back the tears welling up in his eyes. This is the nicest one who's come along, he thinks to himself, I hope he stays awhile.
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