We were at the Juneteenth festival—music, food trucks, kids running wild, the whole neighborhood packed into the streets. I’d only looked away for a second to pay for a funnel cake, but when I turned back, my nephew Zavi was gone.
Panic hit me like a wave. I dropped everything and started shouting his name, checking every bounce house, every face in the crowd. I was two seconds from calling 911 when I spotted him—curled up, dead asleep, in a police officer’s arms.
