My older sister Nancy and I walk down the street together. In our hands are plastic grocery bags that smell like shame and old onions. We are going trick-or-treating. I know we're getting too old for it. I'm ten and Nan's thirteen. But Nan says we need this. She says not to worry about Mom and Dad—not to think about the bills, the angry phone calls, or the frowning men taking the TV and sofas. "They have nothing to do with us," Nan says. "Not tonight, at least. This is our time." I'm dressed as a bum. Easy enough. My jeans are already ripped, with mud that never seems to disappear. Nan's dress