They must’ve been worth more than they looked, but not in money. No, not at all. They looked worn out. Handed down from at least three children before him. The sole was tearing at the bottom, and the laces weren’t tied right—not even in the right holes. The bottom of them looked stained, and not just from dirt. Maybe water, maybe puke, maybe other things. They didn’t look new at all, I’ll tell you that. And because they didn’t look new, I saw nothing wrong with them. They looked worn. Used. Loved. I’ve seen him get laughed at. Get told:

“What are those?”

He never had an answer. Sort of frowned, but never got mad or yelled or snapped. He shrugged and kept on walking, as if they didn’t mean a thing to him in any bad way. I wonder if he’s ever woken up in the morning and smiled at how ridiculous they looked after being worn for at least three years before him.

They must’ve been worth more than they looked.