I enter work in the morning, wearing the same pretty-dirty cream-colored suit I’ve had since I started staying at Karina’s place the other night. Banks don’t usually open on Sundays, but Atlanta Cares is special. It’s in the name and everything.
Mr. Larkins, standing up front, sees me and gives me a tight embrace, his face beaming. “You did it, kid,” he says. “I don’t know what it was, but it sure damn worked.”