But one stood out.
Eli was 14.
He was small for his age, quiet, and polite to a fault. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, but when he did, his voice had this strange mix of hope and weariness that stayed with you.
He had a gift with machines. He could fix anything, it seemed: radios, broken fans, and the overhead projector no one else dared touch.
One icy afternoon, when my old Chevy wouldn’t start, he stayed behind after class and popped the hood like a professional.
“It’s your starter,” he said, glancing up at me.
“Give me five minutes and a screwdriver.”
I’d never seen a kid so confident doing something so grown-up. And I remember thinking, this boy deserves more than this world is offering him.
His father was in prison. His mother was mostly a rumor.
Sometimes she’d stagger into the office, loud and smelling like gin, asking for bus tokens and food coupons. I tried to bridge the gap: extra snacks in my desk drawers, new pencils when Eli’s broke, and a ride home when the buses stopped early.
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