5
Honi’s nose wrinkled as he took in the general air of neglect. A rusted shell of a car sat outside the yard on breeze blocks. A slightly newer version of the same Chevy was next to it, its rust-colored varnish on the hood dulled with age and exposure.
Honi’s eyes narrowed. There was a boy sitting on the front of the car, head bowed and concentrating on a block of paper in his lap. The kid was maybe twelve or thirteen, skinny, with unruly black hair, dressed in ill-fitting hand-me-downs.
The car stopped in front of the bungalow, and Honi got out. The boy looked up and frowned at the newcomers.
“Hi there,” Honi called out. “What you drawing?”
The kid’s forehead furrowed. He covered up his work with one hand, then jumped off the car.
“What’s it to you, mister?”
He had a point. After
