Isaiah looked across the courtyard where Victoria was crouched to speak to a little girl at eye level, straightening the child’s backpack before sending her toward a table stacked with fruit cups.
He thought of the fence.
He thought of wax paper.
He thought of a hungry boy being seen.
‘I know,’ he said.
That evening, after the crowd thinned and the volunteers finished stacking chairs, Isaiah asked Victoria to walk with him to the side garden.
A section of the original chain-link fence had been preserved there deliberately, framed by climbing roses and a bronze plaque explaining the site’s history.
He had not told her why he wanted that piece saved, and she had not asked.
Under the soft courtyard lights, he took the glass frame from a small cloth bag.
Victoria, eyes already bright with understanding, reached into her purse and pulled out the other half of the ribbon.
