Picture him, just 9 years old, walking the streets of San Francisco each morning, dropping off his younger sister at school, then hustling back home to take care of his baby brother. His chair in Mr. Klaus’ third-grade class sits empty, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks.
Picture him, summoning the courage to write a letter to the man he kept hearing about — “You run just like your pops!” they’d tell him on the football field — but rarely saw. Then stamping that letter. Then mailing it to his father in prison. “I don’t know you,” part of it read.