“You think Coach will let us out of practice Friday?” Keaton asked one afternoon as they walked home, bags bouncing on their backs.
“For what?”
“Community center needs hands for the donation drive. Figured we could show up.”
Frede grinned. “That’s exactly why you’re my best friend.”
It was an ordinary Tuesday in late September when everything shifted. They were cutting through the back road lined with trees just starting to turn when they heard it—a thin, broken sound.
“Help…”
They stopped dead. Down the slope, half-hidden in the brush, an old man lay on the ground, one shaky hand reaching for nothing.
Keaton dropped his bag first and ran. Frede was half a step behind.
The man was surrounded by cracked eggs and spilled milk. A torn canvas bag had emptied itself across the dirt.
“Sir, can you hear me?” Keaton knelt, steady but urgent.
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