She looked about twelve years old, perhaps a little older, with the kind of posture that suggested she had learned to move carefully through spaces that were not always kind. Her name was June Parker, and her oversized sweater hung loosely over her frame while she carried a thin plastic bag pressed tightly against her side.
Her shoes were worn at the edges, and her hair was tied back unevenly with strands falling across her face, while her eyes stayed lowered in the practiced habit of someone who had learned that attention often came with a cost. Raymond noticed her immediately and called out, “Hey, you there,” without thinking about how the moment might feel from her side.
June stopped instantly, her shoulders tightening before she even turned, and when she faced him her voice came out quiet and guarded as she said, “I did not take anything.” The young men burst into laughter so quickly that it was clear they had expected something like that, and one repeated her words in a mocking tone while recording.