They later learned he had waited for the city to fall asleep before making his move, timing each step so no one would stop him. He knew the route from memory, counting traffic lights, keeping her tiny face tucked into his jacket to shield her from the cold. By the time he reached the hospital, his fear had hardened into resolve. He didn’t come asking for pity; he came asking for a chance.
Inside, the sterile corridors became something different: a shelter. The nurses who wrapped his sister in warm blankets also wrapped him in something he’d never fully known—unquestioning safety. The social worker who spoke of “next steps” offered him something else: choice, dignity, and a future not defined by survival alone. That night did not erase what came before, but it drew a line. On one side was everything he’d endured. On the other was everything still possible.
