“You from social services?”
“No.”
“Church?”
“No.”
“You work for that new clinic?”
I shook my head. “I’m just … lookin’ to help.”
The kid crossed his arms. “Ain’t nobody helpin’ ‘round here unless they want something.”
I pulled out my wallet and held up a fifty. “I want to talk to your mom. Five minutes. You walk me to her door, you keep this.”
He stared at the bill. Then at me.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
He narrowed his eyes. “People say that when there’s a catch.”
“They do,” I said. “But I’m not people.”
A long beat passed. Then, with a quick flick of his wrist, he snatched the fifty and turned. “This way. Stay behind.”
I followed.
The building we ended up at looked like it had survived a war. Rusted chain-link fence. Vinyl siding warped from heat. Front door hanging crooked on one hinge. The kind of place that whispered stories even when nobody was talking.
He knocked twice, then twice more in a rhythm I recognized as habit.
The door cracked. A chain rattled. Then a tired voice asked, “Who’s that?”
“Some guy,” the kid muttered. “Says he wants to help.”
The woman on the other side peered through the gap. Her eyes flicked to me, then down to my boots.
“You a cop?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You with the church?”
“No, ma’am.”
She sighed. “Then what are you?”
“Outreach,” I said. “Pilot program. Community health initiative.”
She didn’t buy it.
I added, “No paperwork. No strings. Just a quick look at your boy’s leg and a grocery stipend. Free of charge.”
Still, she hesitated.
Then her eyes slid to the bill in her son’s hand.
