"Everyone’s got their own idea of what’s broken," Oscar replied. "What happened to your arm?"
"When I was around your age, I played basketball," I said, still watching the crow, its beady blue eyes glinting as if listening. "I was good at it—team player, coach’s favorite. Naturally, not everyone liked that. One day after practice, walking home along a road like this, three guys from the team caught up to me. We fought, and in the scuffle, one of them pulled out a pocketknife. Sliced right through the muscle here."
"Yikes," Oscar grimaced.
"Took forever to heal. Couldn’t play for months. By then, they’d replaced me, and one by one, the team forgot I ever existed," I sighed.
"Didn’t you try to go back to basketball after you healed?" the kid asked.
"No." I shook my head. "I was too angry at everyone back then. Didn’t want anything to do with them. Basketball was over for me—and so was any desire to stand out."
"But you became an artist," the boy pointed out. "That makes you stand out too."
"By then I’d learned not to let anyone smother what I wanted," I said. "That’s the whole point of living, isn’t it?"
The crow let out a loud caw and took off. Its wing seemed fine now as it flew away confidently, still cawing in the distance.
"Guess it wanted to thank you," the kid smiled, watching it go.
"For what?"
"Maybe it just needed someone to believe in it."
"You and your weird theories, kid," I laughed. "It’s just a bird."
"If you say so." He pointed behind me at the bus stop’s covered section. "What do you think was posted there before?"
I glanced at the torn remnants of paper still clinging to the metal frame, fluttering slightly in the breeze.
"No idea. Apartment listings, probably. The usual stuff."
"Zero imagination," Oscar clicked his tongue. "And you call yourself a creative."
"Who cares?" I sat back down on the bench, which creaked ominously under my weight.
"Come on," he persisted. "I always look at those when waiting for the bus. Sometimes there’s something cool."
"Like what?"
"Like… selling vintage dolls or buying up old jewelry," he said.
"And what's so interesting about that?" I crossed my arms.
"Aren't you curious why someone would sell a doll their great-grandmother played with? Or some old ring? There's gotta be a story behind it."