I was 16 when it happened. I didn't talk about it for a long time, but sometimes when I can't sleep, I still go over that night in my head.

I'm older now, I've moved out and got my own place and job, but a part of me is still anchored to that house.

There was something about it that never made sense.

We grew up in a bad area.

I'm talking burglaries, gang signs sprayed over garage doors, cops cruising past our

streets slow enough to make it feel like

they were waiting for something to happen.

I saw someone get dragged out of their car in front of our house when I was 13.

We heard gunshots a few blocks over so often we stopped checking the news the next morning.

People broke into homes for TVs, tools, even food.

It happened all the time. But it never happened to us. That was something I could never explain.

We weren't special. We didn't have a dog or bars on the explain. We weren't special.

We didn't have a dog or bars on the windows.

We didn't even have a working security system.

Sometimes I'd come home and find the screen door unlatched or a window that looked tampered with.

But nothing ever came of it.

My mom would brush it off and tell me not to worry.

I tried not to, but it always stuck with me.

On the other hand, my old man was gone before I even turned six.

I used to ask about him sometimes.

My mom never had much to give.

She said he worked in a specialized field, whatever that meant.

...