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“You’ve been staring at me through that fence for twenty minutes. Do you need help?”
“No! I was just... looking.”
“Right. Well, looking isn't going to get my chain fixed. Either come help or stop creeping me out, whoever you are.”
“I’m Michael. Michael Jackson,” he says, his voice incredibly soft as a pair of wide, brown doe eyes blink back through the tall metal bars. The name itself feels like an apology. The boy just stares back at him blankly. “You… uhm… you really don’t know me?”
Or, a young Michael Jackson finds the one person in Los Angeles who doesn't give a damn about his name.
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