Billboard CowboyAxel Milens
Even after all these years, I still wake up drenched in sweat. The nightmares take me back to that afternoon in 1994. The old guilt swells up, fresh and raw, and I have to ask again: Was it my fault?
I was twelve at the time. We had driven over the hills to North Hollywood and were parked in front of my cousins’ house, a one-story stucco box with windows secured by rusty metal bars. I sat in the back seat of our Pontiac Grand Prix without moving, holding the handle of the open door while my mother sighed with annoyance.
“I’ll pick you up after my dentist appointment,” she said. “Get out.”
“Don’t leave me here,” I whined. But I had already admitted defeat and stepped out of the car under her impatient glare. I slammed the door, and she took off in a haze of b
