I heard shouts near the petrol station while running errands. People get passionate out here, so I thought it was just another disagreement. But then I saw.
A policeman fought a huge man. He was crazy, punching and pushing the officer. The cop barely stood, his hand over his holster, but he had no time to draw.
Worst part?
People stood around, watching. No one moved. No one helped.
What happened to me? My mind was blank. Just reacted.
I ran toward them without realizing it. I sprang on the attacker’s back, wrapped my arms around his neck, and pulled hard without thinking.
Stumbling, cursing, he sought to shake me off. After gasping, the officer grabbed his cuffs.
And then—
Man I was holding turned his head.
I saw his face.
And my heart nearly stopped.
Since I knew him.
Meeting your gaze gave me a cold. His face was older, rougher, and harder, but I was sure. I nurtured him before.
His name was Marcus.
Once, he was a thin, silent fifteen-year-old who hardly spoke. He bounced from home to home, problems following him. However, when he was placed with me, I saw something tender beneath the rage. I tried. Truly had. I gave him room and focus. I set limits, then relaxed them when he needed love more than discipline. It wasn’t enough. He left my house one night, leaving a damaged window and an empty bed.
He was now a grown man, towering above me. I tried to pull him down by clinging to his back.
His face lost its fight for a moment. Recognition flared in his eyes.
He growled, “Miss Carter?”
He was tackled by the officer because he hesitated. My breath was heavy and my mind racing as I lurched backward.
Marcus groaned as the officer pinned him with his knee on his back. “Man, get off me,” he snarled.
“Stop resisting,” the officer said.
My voice was calm as I stepped forward. “Marcus, stop fighting. Just let him cuff you.”
He listens for some reason. Perhaps he was exhausted. Because he may have trusted me deep down.
After securing the cuffs, the officer pulled him up. Marcus’s thirteen-year-old fence-jumping scar was visible on his wrist. That wound was cleaned. So I tried to shield him.
And now? He was pushed into a police car.
I was noticed by the police. You okay, ma’am?
I nodded numbly. “Yeah. Yes, I’m OK.”
But I wasn’t.
Later that night, I couldn’t shake it. I paced my modest apartment, staring at my phone, debating. Should I look him up? See what occurred after he ran? It wasn’t necessary. Already knew. Foster kids like Marcus did not always get second opportunities. Others went to worse situations than group homes. Some ended up where he was.
Some part of me needed to know.
So I contacted the station.
I identified myself. Requested to see him.
Much to my astonishment, they agreed.
My heart raced when I entered the station the next morning. They took me to a holding cell where Marcus sat on a seat staring at the floor. Though uncuffed, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
When he looked up, his eyes were exhausted, not angry.
“I can’t believe it was you,” he said.
Arms folded. No, me neither.”
We stared at each other for a while. Sighing, I sat across the bars. “What happened, Marcus?”
His laughter was dry and harsh. “A lot. Got into trouble. Did time. Strived straight. My return isn’t warmly welcomed by the world.”
Swallowed hard. You were a good kid.”
He scoffed. “Was I?”
I nodded. “Yeah. You feared. You raged. You weren’t bad.”
Marcus glance away. Not important. Too late.”
“No,” I insisted. It’s not.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You don’t understand, Miss Carter.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t get your life. However, if you’re breathing, it’s not too late.”
I could tell he was listening despite his silence. Truly listening.
My exhalation. I have no idea what will happen. But I’ll help—if you want.”
His expression twitched for the first time since I saw him again. Something that reminded me of the kid who sat at my kitchen table pretending not to care, even though he always came for supper.
“I’ll think about it,” he whispered.
It was enough.
Three months later, I received mail. I wrote my name on the front, no return address.
My shaking hands opened it.
Hi Miss Carter,
I’ve been thinking about what you said that day, if you meant it. About how it may not be too late. About how I might change my life.
I try. It’s hard. I’m trying.
Thanks for carrying me.
Marcus
I laughed hard and wiped my eyes.
I finally had hope after years.
People sometimes need one person to tell them they’re still alive.
If you thought you were done saving, you’re not.
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