She stopped short on the concrete step, her fingers squeezing the plastic handle until her knuckles went white.

Trent was standing four feet over on his side of the plastic cones, leaning his shoulders against our wooden boundary post.

He was holding his phone up high, aiming the camera down the road toward Elm Street and laughing in loud, scratchy bursts.

“Hey, Emily,” Trent shouted, rocking back and forth on his toes.

“Look down the street if you want to see where your dad has to leave his broken-down sedan!”

Emily lowered her eyes to her feet, and tears started sliding quietly down her cheeks.