There sat the three of them; Ali, Devon, and Julio Vasquez. His speech on the sorry state of his city and its people had put him into a dreary mood. Julio wasn’t wrong. This whole day had been living proof, and Julio had stories of his own. A part of him wanted to defend his city—New Hudson wasn’t all bad! Devon had lived here his entire life and had gotten to see it from al sides. There were plenty of reasons why today seemed to go so wrong— it was right smack in the middle of the summer, blazing hot even in the shade. That people were a little big on edge was reasonable. And what invention of people didn’t have the occasional spat here and there? Nevertheless, Devon could not help but feel a bit ashamed of his city.

Out of nowhere, a quiet voice began to chant:

Poor rocky pebbles built my walls

Four handfuls each do I call home

Humble as the prophets

Who without complaint or sound

Shield me from wind and sand and rain

And I, safe and warm and dry

Would not trade this place

For