The same one Zayd had mentioned that night.
“Oh god,” I whispered.
Amrita had already pieced it together. “He worked there. That was his job.”
I felt sick.
We watched his acceptance speech. His voice was deeper now, but still carried that calm. He thanked his foster mother, mentors, and then said something that made Amrita cry again:
No bitterness. Just quiet resolve.
I hadn’t known I’d hurt him. That center closed three months after I flagged it. For me, it was a file. For him, maybe it was rent. Maybe survival.
A week later, I went to his public meet-and-greet. Didn’t tell Amrita. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for—maybe forgiveness.
When I reached the front of the line, he looked at me.
“You look familiar,” he said.
My heart pounded. “We met years ago. My car broke down.”
Recognition lit his face. “Route 9. You gave me a ride.”
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