“How did fixing a door turn into all this?” I asked quietly.
The boy at the stove lifted the pot lid.
“We brought groceries.”
Tate took a breath.
“Knox used to come play basketball with us at Mercer Courts. He helped us. All of us, in different ways.”
One boy said, “He got me through algebra.”
Another added, “He brought groceries when my mom got sick.”
Someone near the window said, “He drove my little brother to urgent care when nobody else could.”
Tate’s voice softened.
“People call us trouble. Some of us were heading that way. Some of us were already there. Knox never acted scared of us. He just kept showing up.”
The youngest boy wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
“He talked about you all the time,” he whispered. “Your peach pie. Your Sunday dinners. Your strict rules. He said you were his favorite person in the world.”
I sat down before my knees could fail me completely.
Tate looked at me and said, “He told me if anything bad ever happened, someone had to make sure his Nana wasn’t sitting alone.”
Nobody moved for a long moment.
Then one boy in the kitchen said nervously, “The roast is gonna dry out.”
I covered my face and let out a broken laugh.
“Then somebody better baste it.”
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
They kept coming back.
Tate finished the doorframe and installed a better lock. Nash fixed the leaking pipe under my sink. Skye mowed the lawn. Bree, the youngest, mostly sat at my kitchen table eating whatever I put in front of him like he still wasn’t sure food could be trusted.
Soon I knew all their names.
Tate. Nash. Skye. Bree. Jamal. Luis. Benji. Trey. Noah. Omar.
They weren’t a gang, not really.
They were just boys who had learned to stand close together because too many adults had already stepped away.
So I started cooking too much again.
The first Sunday they all came for dinner, Tate stopped in the doorway and stared at the table.
Roasted chicken. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Hot biscuits. Peach pie.
“You made all this?” he asked.
I tied my apron tighter.
“You boys eat, don’t you?”
By the third Sunday, we had rules.
No swearing at my table.
No fighting on my porch.
Shoes off at the door.
And nobody was allowed to say they weren’t hungry if I could hear their stomach growling.
Skye mumbled, “That sounds exactly like Knox.”
I said, “Then clearly he learned from the best.”
Then came the night everything almost fell apart.
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