After the fire, after neighbors called him brave, Ethan showered soot down the drain and asked me to quiz him on integers. That’s twelve: smoke and math homework in the same breath. Then came the envelope.
At dawn, we found a red limousine waiting. Inside sat J.W. Reynolds, a retired firefighter who’d lost his daughter to flames. He told Ethan, “You gave me back what I thought was gone—hope.” He offered a scholarship, mentorship, family. Marcus sneered, but J.W. stood taller. Ethan learned bravery isn’t absence of fear—it’s running toward the scream. Months later, badge on his desk, he still forgets lunches and groans at algebra. But there’s a line through him now: steady, quiet, unshakable.
