Davon

In Queens, a district of New York where skyscrapers give way to brick houses and shady alleyways, I was hard at work in the grocery store run by Mason, an old man who had taken care of me since my parents threw me out. Kneeling, I unloaded cardboard boxes and arranged their contents on the shelves. It was a small grocery store, but there was no shortage of customers. “Almost done Mason.” I said, smirking and glancing at him.