Superintendent Delgado reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small square of paper, folded so tightly it looked like a stone. The gym held its breath. “In September 1990, I was fifteen,” he said, his voice no longer steady. “My father was in county jail, my mother worked nights, and I had not eaten since Monday. I sat outside the front office, too proud to ask for anything.” Dr. Langley’s smile had vanished. Mom covered her mouth.

“A woman opened her bottom drawer, took out this bill, and pressed it into my palm without a word,” he continued. He unfolded it slowly, and a line of faded handwriting ran along the edge. Then he turned it toward the crowd, and every person in that gym leaned forward to read it.