I grew up in a house in southeast Denver from the time I was 3 until I left for college. A pale green, single-family home on the corner of Nassau Avenue and Rosemary Way. The neighborhood was full of families, bicycles and trees. Tall, full trees.

A black family of five lived across the street. Two parents, three teenagers. My dad was friends with the dad, Robert, whose oldest son drove a dark purple Camaro that I always thought looked fast and cool. My dad and Robert often chatted over neighborly things like mowing lawns, checking the mail and arriving home from work. We’d have dinner together every now and then. I remember their dog running around out back. I remember the daughter painting my nails.

One afternoon—it must’ve been a weekend because my dad was home, working in the yard—he abruptly crossed the street to go into Robert’s house. I didn’t know why. When my dad came back, he walked up our driveway wiping tears from his eyes. A rare sight.

He gently told me that Robert’s son, the one with the cool car, had been killed during a weekend in Las Vegas. All he said.

After that, the purple Camaro sat in Robert’s driveway, covered and untouched.