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Marisol thanked them every time and left, anyway.
I’d watch her go, pushing that stroller with one broken wheel that made it veer to the left, disappearing toward the riverwalk.
It felt like something had to give, and one day, it did.
One afternoon, the center doors burst open.
A woman I vaguely recognized, another outreach volunteer, stumbled inside carrying Noah. Her face was red and streaked with tears.
I took Noah from her.
He was clutching a red toy truck so tightly his knuckles were white. His face was blank, like somebody had turned all the lights off, and that terrified me.
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