Sam stared at the photograph. It showed a boy about his age, grinning in a faded baseball cap, standing beside a younger Walter. “This is my son, Peter,” Walter said quietly. “He died at twelve, on a sidewalk much like that one. Nobody stopped for him either.” The principal looked away, and Sam felt his throat tighten.

“I have spent thirty years wishing someone would have been like you,” Walter continued. “When you took my hand that morning, I felt like I was holding his.” He reached into his coat and drew out a thick envelope, then glanced at the door, where a woman in a gray suit was waiting. Sam’s heart pounded, because the woman was smiling at him.