Wake before the sun. Slip unnoticed past the hiss of your father’s snore. Past the mildew smell inside the closed-up caravan, the floor cold under your socks. Pull the curtain aside. Fog sticks to the windows like breath. Don’t think.

But you do. Just for a minute. No more. About your new friends and if this is what you want. Sneakers caked with dried mud. Hoodie thin at the elbows. Wheels thudding as you drop off the porch.

The road’s quiet. Gravel and split pavement. You push off, coast. The skateboard’s your ticket out of morning silence. Bearings whining. Wind slicing your eyes.

At the harborfront, the ships sleep heavy in their slips. Rusted cranes crane nothing. Gulls wheel overhead, stirred and angry. And there they are—the Kings.

Wren’s perched on the edge of a shipping container, laces undone, hoodie unzipped like he owns the air. “Took your time, Caravan.”

They all call you that. The boy from the trailers. The kid with the off-brand board and hand-me-down smirk. You try to look unbothered. 

They nod at you. You’re in. Mostly.

The Kings run the breakers—the rusted-out zone where sea meets metal and salt. They tag containers—rushed crowns, sloppy letters—and bomb the makeshift skate bowl behind the warehouses. Tell stories about cracking bones and breaking rules. You listen, sketch your own tags across a notebook’s pages. Laugh when they do. But sometimes the laughter sticks in your throat. Sometimes you wonder if they’d leave you broken, too.

This morning, it’s a schoolboy in the park. Backpack too big. Shoes too clean. Head down.

Wren steps into his path. “Hey. What’ve you got?”

The kid blinks. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t speak. Just waits like something worse is coming.

“C’mon,” says one of the others. “Be quick.”

The boy opens his bag with both hands like he’s afraid it’ll bite. Pulls out a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. A five-dollar bill. His fingers shake.

You watch. Your chest feels tight. Like it’s laced wrong. Like something inside you wants to get out. You see yourself—before the Kings—walking home with a too-big pack and no one to step in. You remember your father staring at the TV while the world pushed you around.

The bill flutters to the ground. Wren steps on it.

You don’t move. Not at first.

Then you speak. “Leave him.”

Wren laughs. “You serious?”

You nod. Your voice cracks, but not like breaking—like cutting. “I’m done.”

Silence. Salt wind. A gull screeching somewhere above.

“You quit?” Wren says, spitting the word like it tastes bad.

You swallow. The wind slices harder now. You nod, knowing what it costs—your place, your shield, maybe more.

You bend down, pick up the five, hand it to the boy. He takes it without a word. Just looks at you, like you’re a twist he didn’t expect.

The boy hurries away and you push off. Back toward the road. The board rattles under you, steadying. Behind you, no one follows.

Back at the caravan, you don’t bother going in to see Dad still asleep, the TV flickering on mute.

You head to the back of the trailer, where the aluminum skin’s dented and forgotten. You stand there a moment, shoulders loose, breath even. Then you reach into your backpack and take out a Sharpie.

You draw a crown, your hand steady. Lines sharp. You step back. The crown broken. Tilting.

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Header photography and artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson