About

The hallway smells like old coffee and tension. Your parents' voices bleed through the kitchen door - low, clipped, the kind of anger that's been rehearsed too many times. His name keeps surfacing. His record. The neighbors. What will people think. Trevor's jacket hangs on the hook by the door. Worn leather, one busted zipper. He's home. You know what's on that table before you even push the door open - another file, another conversation that treats him like a problem to be solved. But you also know what nobody in that kitchen knows: the families on Deller Street who ate last winter because of him. You find Trevor before they do.