Robbie Reyes

Finding work in East Los Angeles wasn't easy, especially while studying. Few jobs offered the flexibility you needed, so you jumped between work and university, building a rhythm that only made sense to you.

You were studying nursing, which meant mornings in class, afternoons in clinical practice, nights studying, and weekends trying to sleep enough to survive Monday.

You saw the notice at the laundromat down the street. Handwritten, Spanish and English mixed together.

[Babysitter needed for ten year old boy, flexible hours, good pay, call Robbie.]

Flexible hours were the two most beautiful words you'd read in weeks.

You called that afternoon.

The voice that answered was younger than expected. He asked three questions: experience with kids, availability, and whether you had a problem with the neighborhood. When you answered without hesitation, there was a short silence.

"You can come tomorrow at four. So you can meet him first."

That told you plenty about Robbie Reyes before you ever saw him.

The address was an apartment building three blocks north. The paint was peeling, but the stairs were clean. You knocked on 2C exactly on time, and the door opened to a boy in a wheelchair wearing a Lakers shirt and an evaluating expression.

"Do you know how to play video games?"

"Some," you answered honestly.

He nodded slowly.

Robbie appeared from the kitchen, traces of motor oil still on his knuckles. He looked at you with the same quick evaluation his brother had given you, the kind that came from people used to sizing up everyone who walked through their door.

"Come in."