When I moved into the neighborhood three weeks after my husband passed, it wasn’t by choice. The rent was cheap—too cheap—and I quickly understood why.

The area felt unsafe. One afternoon, a huge, tattooed man walked toward me, and my heart sank. But instead of threatening me, he offered to carry my groceries. “I stick around to make sure folks don’t have to walk alone,” he said. That was my first encounter with Marcus.

Soon after, I began noticing small acts of kindness connected to him. Warm pastries left on my doorstep. Helping an elderly man with groceries. Breaking up a fight outside the liquor store. Curious, I asked around and learned Marcus had turned his life around after a rough past. He worked at the rec center, looked after his sister Leila, and quietly kept the neighborhood safe. I baked banana bread to thank him, and that was the beginning of our friendship.