And while Quan was certainly shocked—and he’ll admit, hurt—to receive one of Martel’s famous “severance statements,” what’s really got his goat are the numbers.

        His debt.

   Because if he’s in monetary debt to Tel, he’s gotta be in some kinda debt to Tay.

        He’s definitely in debt to Attorney Friedman, so certainly also to Liberty.

          Ain’t no telling how much debt he’s in to Doc.

    And Justyce?

    It’ll be a miracle if he’s able to look that guy in the eye (ever) again.

   He hates it, but that damn ledger keeps shoving Quan’s least-favorite questions right to the forefront of his consciousness:

   WhyIs​Anyone​HelpingHim? ​WhyDoes​Anyone​Care? ​WhatAre​They​Expecting​InReturn?​ How’sHe​Supposed​ToPay​Anyone​Back?​ WhenWill​TheReckoningCome?

   Then the worst one of all:

   H o w L o n g T i l l T h e y R e a l i z e H e’s N o t W h o T h e y T h i n k H e I s?

       Because he isn’t.

   He’s no scholar or visionary or future leader of America.

   He’s a dumb kid who made a bunch of dumb decisions that have put him so deep in debt with EVERYONE, it feels like drowning.

   Yeah, he loves his family more than life and is good with numbers. But that don’t compute to “worthwhile investment of time, energy, and resources.”

        But flip the script, LaQuan, he can hear Tay saying in his brain the way

    she did in his last session:

          If you were

          ME,

          and I was

          YOU,

          would you invest in

          ME as YOU?

   “Yes,” he said without thinking twice.

              But why?

   “Because it’s you. Obviously.”

        (She rolled her eyes. A nonverbal you’re missing the point, LaQuan.)

          What if it wasn’t me? What if it was a kid LIKE you?

     One with your exact history?

   Quan had to think then. But not for long. Because that answer was obvious too. “I’d still invest.”

                    Invest what?

   “Time. Energy. Resources…” The next word shocked him as it popped off his tongue; it bounced around the room in an echo-ish way that the others hadn’t: “Belief.”

              Belief?

   “Yeah. Everyone should have somebody who believes in ’em. Like no matter what they’ve done. Somebody who won’t give up on them.”

        Then:

   “No strings attached.”

   He did get the point then. HE was willing to do for someone else what was being done for him. At no cost and with no strings. It was the right thing to do.

              Period.

   And yet…

   “So you planning to tell me what’s going on, or should we—”

   Doc doesn’t get the rest out because there’s a BUZZZZZ and then the door to their classroom space flies open.

        “MA’AM, you can’t just barge in, there are PROTOCOLS for a reas—”

   But that brown bowling-ball-headed bark gets cut off too.

   “Jarius, LaQuan, I need you both to come with me,” Attorney Friedman says with such authority, the air in the room would get in line if she told it to.

   Quan and Doc look at each other, wide-eyed.

       “Ma’am! I’m gonna hafta ask—”

   “There’s something you need to see,” she continues, lifting a hand. (Quan’s never seen his least-favorite guard’s mouth shut so fast.)

              “Right now.”

       Quan almost trips over his own feet when he follows Attorney Friedman through the open door of the Fulton Regional Youth Detention Center conference room and sees the likes of Justyce McAllister seated at the long table.

   Justyce, who gives Quan a brief nod before facing back forward. And who’s wearing a suit. Quan can tell Justyce is trying real hard to stay in Professional Negro mode—and he’s sure Justyce knows how intensely Quan is roasting Jus in his head. But the fact that he’s here expands the space around Quan just enough for him to breathe a little easier.

   Still doesn’t know what he’s doing here, though. What any of them are doing here.

   “Jarius, Quan, if you’ll have a seat, please.” Attorney Friedman has moved to the top of the room and leans over to say something to a guy at the head of the table with a laptop open.

   And as soon as Quan’s butt hits the chair, an image appears on a screen he didn’t notice behind laptop dude. A screen that takes up half the wall.

   Quan’s eyes dart around and then shoot up to the projector, his mind kicking into scheming high gear as different ways of smashing the clunky white device to pieces, destroying it irreparably, spin through his head like a highlight reel. Because on the giant screen is a grainy image of a sparse room with a table and two chairs.

       And sitting in one of the chairs is Quan. With his hands cuffed behind him.

   A sharp pain shoots through Quan’s shoulder as the memories stampede into his head. He can feel his chest begin to tighten, so he shuts his eyes and does some deep breathing, knowing it’s better for everyone to see this than one of his signature panic attacks. Takes himself away (mentally at least).

   The feeling of warmth jolts him back into the room after who knows how long, and as Quan’s eyes latch on to the contrast between his brown forearm and the pale hand resting there, a woman’s voice speaks: