Then Knox collapsed during a basketball game.
Just like that.
Seventeen years old, running across a court one second, gone the next.
His coach called me first. Then the hospital. Then the school.
At his memorial service, the church was packed with faces I didn’t recognize.
One teammate said, “Knox never let anybody eat lunch alone.”
A teacher said, “He noticed the kids everybody else had already given up on.”
Then a boy in the back stood up and whispered, “He made me believe I wasn’t a lost cause.”
That sentence stayed with me all the way home.
When the taxi dropped me off, I dragged my suitcase up the walkway and stopped cold.
My front door was damaged near the lock.
Fresh splinters lay across the porch.
For a second, I thought grief had finally followed me home in another form.
Then I pushed the door open.
And froze.
There were ten teenage boys in my house.
One was painting over the old water stain in the hallway. Another was repairing my broken bookshelf. One boy scrubbed the hardwood floor on his hands and knees. Two others carried grocery bags into the kitchen.
And from the stove came the smell of garlic, onions, and pot roast.
A tall boy with paint on his hands turned around so quickly he nearly dropped the brush.
“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “please don’t panic.”
“That depends,” I replied, gripping my purse, “on what you say next.”
He swallowed.
“We were friends with Knox.”
I looked around my living room.
“That does not explain why you’re inside my house.”
A skinny boy with thick glasses pointed toward the door.
“We didn’t break that. It was already like that when we got here.”
The tall boy nodded quickly.
“My name is Tate. Knox gave me your address a couple months ago. He told me if anything ever happened, I had to make sure you were okay.”
My breath caught.
“He told you that?”
Tate nodded, eyes shining.
“I thought he was just being dramatic.”
A boy near the stove muttered, “He was never dramatic about her.”
The room went quiet.
Tate looked down at his shoes.
“We came by yesterday after we heard. The doorframe was busted. We knocked, but nobody answered. We didn’t want to leave your house open, so we fixed what we could.”
I looked around again.
The paint was uneven. The curtains were folded but not hung. The bookshelf was repaired but unfinished. Walter’s old recliner had fresh fabric stretched over one cushion, though one armrest was still worn through.
It was messy.
Unfinished.
Imperfect.
But it looked cared for.
That nearly broke me.
“How did fixing a door turn into all this?” I asked quietly.
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