Dr. Ellis picked up her clipboard with trembling hands. “I was a student here in 1988,” she said quietly. “Every month, someone paid my lunch account and signed only ‘In memory of Dolores B.’ I have searched for that person for thirty-five years.” The classroom went completely silent. I swallowed hard and told her that Dolores was my grandmother, who died before I was born.

Dr. Ellis covered her mouth. “Then the man who hummed in the hallway and slipped me sandwiches,” she whispered, “was Mr. Brooks.” Twenty-six classmates stared at me. Then my phone buzzed on the desk. It was a message from Grandpa. “Child, I am in the parking lot. You forgot your lunch.” Dr. Ellis read it over my shoulder, and her eyes filled with tears.