I stood on the corner in my plain brown jacket with my hands in my pockets, feeling foolish. At 7:40, a yellow bus stopped, then a minivan, then a long line of cars. Every door opened at once. Parents stepped out holding handmade signs, and children jumped onto the pavement shouting my name. Lily ran to me first, holding a rolled paper tied with a red ribbon.

Her mother, Dana Whitfield, stepped forward with a microphone in one hand and a thick folder in the other. “Mr. Pruitt,” she said, “we have been waiting four years to say this.” She opened the folder, and a hush fell over the whole street. I saw a photograph clipped to the first page. It showed me on this exact corner on a rainy morning, and my face went hot because I remembered that morning.