Black canvas high-tops splash through shallow puddles on Locust St. as a light rain falls at a slant. A black haired 16-year-old walks down the street... his hair a few inches short of shoulder length. He wears a pair of faded blue jeans and a faded jean jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. His hands rest in his coat pocket and he can’t seem to take his deep blue eyes off the side walk. “Huh, I wonder what freaking poor person is in the library this evening.” It was around fall time. "You don't need to use your money,love. He's my son, or will be soon, and if he wants to go to hockey camphe goes." He is 'our' son," Maria corrected, "and he will go using 'our' money.My consulting fee will go into a family account, and whatever the bakerycan spare from its account can be added into that. I agree that heshould go. My old brain keeps telling me, 'no, it's too expensive' butwe do have the money now, and it will be a special time for him." Sheturned to Rachael: "But that doesn't. More

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