A silver-plated shovel plunged into dirt, piercing the top layer and sliding through the rich soil underneath, the hole surrounded by perfectly arranged red velvet.
Applause bled through the air.
Scooby stabbed at a can of baked beans with a switchblade until the torn-up lid fell to the floor of the kitchenette. His scrawny fourteen-year-old arms struggled to dislodge the contents into a chipped pot. A jagged purple scar started under his left eye, wound down his face, and sliced into his nostril. The flap of nose had dangled free following the beating two years earlier, but at least it reattached itself, although crookedly. Doctor bills and proper stitches didn’t take priority over food. Now, with the flared nostril, one side of his face appeared permanently angry.