The house was a green ranch, in a neighborhood of wealth that strives to appear modest. It was unlike the Section 8 apartment complex I grew up in, where new trucks had bumper stickers that said, My Kid Beat Up Your Honor Student. But on the scale of expansive houses I would come to learn as a babysitter, the home was average. The boy answered the front door and said his name. He could have said, Charlie, except it was less childlike, a name between Charlie and Henry. He was barefoot and there was white between his toes. I noted that the previous babysitter had not been diligent with sunscreen.