My name is Frank. I’m retired now, but after a lifetime as an electrician, I still notice things most people overlook. That’s why the old caravan stood out. A battered 1970s Sun-Liner, it had been rotting away in my neighbor’s yard for years—tires sunken into the dirt, windows cracked, metal stained with moss and rust.
Then Maya came along.
She’s seventeen and lives three houses down with her dad in a tiny one-bedroom rental. Her mother died of cancer two years ago. Medical bills wiped out everything—their home, the car, every dollar they had. Her father works two jobs and sleeps on the couch so Maya can use the bedroom.
