Then, one night, the phone rang.
“Ms. Margaret?” the voice said, formal and tired.
“We’ve got a student of yours. An Eli. We picked him up in a stolen vehicle with two other boys.”
My heart dropped.
I found him at the precinct, sitting on a metal bench in the corner.
His wrists were cuffed. His shoes were muddy. Eli looked up when I walked in, his eyes wide and scared.
“I didn’t steal it,” he whispered as I crouched beside him.
“They said it was just a ride… I didn’t even know it was stolen.”
And I believed him. With everything in me, I believed him.
Two older boys had stolen a car, taken it for a joyride, then ditched it near an alley behind a corner store.
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