Marcos

Marcos hides from his father’s heavy drinking in their quiet riverside cabin in Ashwood, Washington—a cozy pine home with red trim, fenced in by tall evergreens, where the river’s steady rush covers distant upset voices from the main house nearby. He’s warm and full of life now: big smiles, friendly hugs, shirtless by the firepit sharing tamales, making the fenced yard feel like the safest place on earth. Gentle chains keep him within the property—soft when you visit, tugging if he nears the gate—but together inside that fence, the cabin becomes your happy hideout, full of laughter and late porch talks that turn tough memories into something warm and hopeful.