“Then you’ll learn,” James said gently. “One day at a time. And we’ll help you.”
The afternoon sun was setting over the Bronx when Marcus and Richard arrived at the building Marcus had called home for the past three years. Richard’s luxury sedan looked absurdly out of place on this street, like a spaceship that had accidentally landed in the wrong dimension.
Richard had insisted on accompanying Marcus to collect his sister and their belongings. James had suggested sending a professional moving service, but Richard had surprised both of them by volunteering to go personally. “The boy shouldn’t have to face this alone,” he’d said, though he suspected his real motivation was more complicated than simple kindness.
Now, sitting in his car and looking at the building, Richard felt his carefully constructed worldview continuing to crumble. The building was five stories of crumbling brick and broken windows. Fire escapes hung precariously from the facade, rust eating through the metal supports. Trash bags were piled on the sidewalk, torn open by rats or stray dogs. Graffiti covered every available surface—some of it artistic, most of it just angry scrawls marking territory.
“This is where you live?” Richard asked, then immediately regretted the question. Of course this was where Marcus lived. Where else would a child whose mother worked three jobs be able to afford?
“Fourth floor,” Marcus said quietly. “The elevator hasn’t worked in two years, so we have to take the stairs.”
They got out of the car and Richard locked it three times, checking each door handle. A group of teenagers sitting on the front steps watched them with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Richard felt acutely aware of his expensive suit, his Rolex, the leather briefcase he was carrying. He might as well have painted a target on his back.
But then Marcus nodded to the teenagers. “Hey, Carlos. Miguel.”
“Marcus.” One of the boys jumped up, concern evident on his face. “Man, where you been? Emma’s been crying all day. Mrs. Rodriguez has been watching her, but she keeps asking for you.”
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I had to take care of something important. I’m here now.”
The teenagers’ eyes shifted to Richard, taking in the expensive suit with obvious distrust. “Who’s this?”
“Someone who’s helping me,” Marcus said simply. “It’s okay, Carlos. I promise.”
The interior of the building was worse than the exterior. The hallway was dark. Half the light fixtures were broken and smelled of mildew, cooking grease, and something else Richard couldn’t identify but that made his stomach turn. The walls were water-stained, the floor tiles cracked and missing in places.
They climbed the stairs, passing other residents. An elderly woman carrying groceries, whom Marcus helped even though Richard could see the boy was exhausted. A young mother with a baby on her hip and two toddlers clinging to her legs, who smiled wearily at Marcus. A man in a security guard uniform, heading out for the night shift.
Each time, Marcus greeted them by name. Each time, they asked about Emma, about how he was managing. And each time, Richard felt smaller and smaller. These people had nothing. They lived in conditions that Richard wouldn’t have tolerated for a storage unit, but they cared about each other in a way that Richard’s wealthy clients never did. They were a community, looking out for one another because they understood that survival required solidarity.
When they reached the fourth floor, Marcus stopped in front of a door with peeling paint. The number 4C hung crooked, held by a single screw. He pulled out a key, then paused.
“It’s not much,” Marcus said, not looking at Richard. “I know what you’re thinking. But it was home.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Richard lied. In truth, his mind was racing with thoughts. None of them flattering to himself.
Marcus opened the door. The apartment was tiny, maybe 400 square feet total. There was a main room that served as living room, dining room, and kitchen all at once. Two doors led off to what Richard assumed were bedrooms, though he suspected they were barely larger than closets. The furniture was old and worn, held together with determination and duct tape. But the apartment was clean—meticulously clean—and decorated with obvious love. Children’s drawings covered the walls. A small bookshelf held well-worn paperbacks arranged by color. A vase of plastic flowers sat on a table, positioned to catch the afternoon light from the single window.
“Marcus!” A little girl burst out of one of the bedrooms and threw herself at Marcus. She was eight years old, small for her age, with the same dark eyes as her brother. Her clothes were clean but patched, her hair pulled back into braids that were starting to come loose.
“Emma,” Marcus said, hugging her tight. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. I’m so sorry.”
“Mrs. Rodriguez said you went to take care of grown-up stuff,” Emma said, her voice muffled against Marcus’s shoulder. “I was scared you weren’t coming back.”
“I’ll always come back,” Marcus promised. “Always. But Emma, I have something important to tell you. Something about Mom.”
An older woman emerged from the other bedroom. Mrs. Rodriguez, Richard assumed. She was in her sixties, with kind eyes and worn hands that spoke of a lifetime of hard work.
“Marcus,” she said with obvious relief. “Thank God. Emma’s been so worried.” Her eyes moved to Richard, instantly suspicious. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Mr. Blackwell,” Marcus said. “He’s from the bank. Mom left us some money, Mrs. Rodriguez. A lot of money.”…
