Brooklyn had never wanted for anything. As a child, all she had to do was say the word and her parents would make sure she had it, even the very next day. She was their youngest and by far the most spoiled, even well into adulthood. She was very aware that she wouldn’t have been able to keep herself and Mathis afloat with all the missed days and job losses if it wasn’t for their handouts. And disapproving glares. Though she hadn’t let it go to her head that much --- she didn’t care about designer bags or expensive clothes, was perfectly fine eating cheap takeout --- there was something about this flea market that she would never be able to wrap her mind around.
“I don’t get the point of this,” she informed the person to her left, staring down a handmade shirt with a more-than-slightly-disgusted expression painting her face, not paying mind to if the vendor could hear her or not. “Does anyone truly enjoy rummaging through other people’s garbage?”
