Takkarist McKinley’s grandmother was dying and he knew it. He teared up as he entered the hospital room, sidling up to her bed as soon as she called him over.
Myrtle Collins’ body was failing her. She had given herself entirely to the teenage boy she had raised as her own son, mining the streets for recyclable cans to help pay their rent, five and 10 cents at a time.
About the only time the woman and the boy managed to forget the grim Northern California neighborhood that had claimed so many of McKinley’s friends with gangs and drugs were a few hours every Monday, Thursday and Saturday.