The Fisher Housing Project was hot in the summer. At eight years old, I had a lot to learn. My father tried to earn extra money by ordering various products from a magazine to sell. Things like men’s work clothes, Gillette razor blades, shoe laces. Oxycontin. He would sell some at the foundry where he worked. I wanted to help, so while he slept one morning I went house to house in the projects and sold items for ten cents apiece. That was a good deal of money, I thought, for Oxycontin and razor blades.

I remember one young lady who bought many items from my tray. There was something very special about her. She had large, dirty wings bursting out of her upper back, and a golden halo that hovered inches above her head. To me, she looked like an angel. And maybe she was one.