His fingers gripped the hem of his hoodie. “Yeah.” He paused. I said, “Want to tell me what happened?” He hesitated a second, then lifted his eyes. “It’s Emily,” he said. “Dylan was picking on her again.” The name knocked something inside me. Seven‑year‑old Emily was the little girl Jason had gently mentioned a few times. She was shy, always wearing hand‑me‑downs, her mom working long shifts at the local diner, and from what Jason told me, they barely made ends meet. One evening he had said, “She eats her lunch so slow, like she’s trying to make it last until dinner.” That line stayed with me longer than I expected. When something like that comes out of your ten‑year‑old’s mouth, the weight of a peanut‑butter sandwich suddenly seems heavier on your tongue.
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