“Who bought the guitar from you, Noah?” I asked, realizing an adult had conducted an expensive transaction with a minor child.

“I took the bus downtown to a vintage hobby buyer named Walter who advertises on bulletin boards,” Noah admitted, looking down again.

“I told him my family needed the money for medical gear, and he handed me the envelope.”

“Did that grown man know you were only thirteen years old?” I asked, feeling my protective instincts flare.

“He asked if my parents knew, and I told him you were waiting outside in the car because you had a migraine,” Noah confessed quietly.

I sighed deeply, realizing we would have to track down this shop owner immediately to reverse the improper sale of our property.