Eli told me the rest slowly, his hands still shaking. He had seen a man in a bathrobe from the sidewalk and recognized Mr. Albert. Calling his name only confused him, so Eli remembered what Mr. Albert loved most. Baseball. Mr. Albert coached Little League for thirty years and taught Eli to throw his first curveball. Eli shouted, “Coach! Practice is starting!” Mr. Albert turned, smiled, and stepped off the tracks toward him. The freight train passed less than a minute later.

Eli’s phone had died right after he texted me, so he couldn’t call for help. Instead, he walked Mr. Albert home the long way, talking about pitching and batting averages the entire time so he wouldn’t wander off again. He held Mr. Albert’s hand at every corner. It took twenty-five minutes. When Rosa saw them coming up the street, she called me before she called the police.

I didn’t scold him for the shortcut. I hugged him so hard his backpack slid off. Rosa hugged him too and wouldn’t let go. The officers who arrived took Mr. Albert’s vitals and praised Eli for staying calm. Mr. Albert asked if Eli could pitch on Saturday. A week later, the police department presented him with a certificate for bravery at a school assembly. Rosa installed door alarms that weekend, and Eli helped me hang a bell over her back door too.

Eli still walks home alone. He follows every rule, except on Fridays, when he stops at Rosa’s house to visit his coach, with my permission, of course. They sit on the porch tossing a baseball back and forth. Some Fridays, Mr. Albert calls him by his name. Other Fridays, he calls him the best player on his team. Either way, Eli always answers. And I’ve learned that trusting him was the right call.