When I was 11, my dad dragged me to the gas station in July. Our fading flip flops clapped against the cheap tile of the convenience store, padding our way to the back fridges to grab drinks. Artificial cans pumped full of colors and syrup sweat in our dry palms, I had chosen my favorite Arizona tea flavor - mango. I painted a small “hi” in the condensation of the fridge door, frowning as I realized it would be backwards after the door was closed. While attempting to draw a backwards “h,” I noticed my dad shuffling through the aisle behind me and scrambled back to his side. I heard a gruff voice at the front of the store, asking for two lottery tickets. My eyes trailed up to the voice, past the crinkly, plastic bags filled with snacks in my periphery.
“He was wearing jeans, and a brown belt,” I stuttered to the police, four days later.
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