👉 PART 2 — The Night the Neighborhood Decided Leo Was the Problem
The kid standing on my porch had hair the color of cotton candy and fingernails painted black. I thought he was everything wrong with this country. I was the one who was broken.
I didn’t want to order the food. My daughter installed the delivery app on my phone, saying I was getting too thin since Martha passed. “It’s easy, Dad,” she said. “Just tap and eat.”
So I tapped. And thirty minutes later, a rusted-out compact sedan rolled into my driveway. The muffler sounded like a dying lawnmower. Out stepped the driver.
He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. Oversized hoodie, skinny jeans that looked like they’d been through a shredder, and that hair—faded pink dye growing out into dark roots. He walked up the steps staring at his phone, headphones around his neck.
