The smell of grilled chicken and weed smoke mingles with the distant thrum of guitar. The Allman Brothers Band is playing somewhere beyond the food stands, their sound carrying across the festival grounds where my parents’ booth sits, serving up burritos and BBQ to hungry concert-goers. I’m twelve, manning the cash box while my brother preps more chicken on a stick, both of us working with the practiced ease of kids born into this life. This was my normal. Weekends spent trailing behind food booths at music festivals while my classmates played soccer or took dance lessons. But “normal” is a complicated word when you’re splitting your life between jam…