Richard held up his hands. Just don’t let this consume you. Too late. It already had. Isaiah sat alone in his office that afternoon, opened a file on his computer. 5 years. Three private investigators. Hundreds of thousands of dollars spent. Nothing. The last report. We’ve exhausted all leads. Victoria Hayes is too common a name.
Family left no forwarding address after 2008. He pulled up a map of Chicago. 12 red pins marked his properties. All within 2 mi of Lincoln Elementary School. If Victoria was still in Chicago, she’d be in that neighborhood helping people. That’s who she was. So, he’d bought properties, developed them, created reasons to be there constantly, hoping, waiting.
His phone buzzed. Reminder, community meeting tonight at 700 p.m. South Chicago Community Center. Isaiah usually sent representatives to these meetings, but something made him type. I’ll attend personally. He didn’t know why, just a feeling. The memories came unbidden. They always did. 22 years ago, he was 10.
Winter, Chicago. 2 weeks on the streets after his mother died. Foster care tried once. One family said he was too difficult. The truth, he was traumatized, grieving. They put him back. He slipped through the cracks. two weeks of sleeping in doorways, digging through trash, stealing when he could. By day 14, he couldn’t walk straight, dizzy from hunger, he found Lincoln Elementary, sat outside the fence during lunch recess, watched kids eat, laugh, play.
A teacher noticed him. You need to leave. You’re scaring the students. Isaiah tried to stand. His legs buckled. The teacher walked away. That’s when he saw her. A black girl with braided hair, maybe 9 years old, standing on the other side of the fence, watching him. Their eyes met. She didn’t look scared. She looked sad.
Victoria Hayes lived three blocks from that school in subsidized housing with peeling paint and broken radiators. Her grandmother raised her. Her parents worked three jobs between them, barely made rent. Breakfast was oatmeal. Lunch was school provided. Dinner was rice and beans. They survived barely, but Victoria’s grandmother taught her, “Baby, we may not have much, but we always share what we got.
” That day at recess, Victoria’s friends called her, “Victoria, come on.” But Victoria couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop staring at the boy outside the fence. He was so thin, clothes torn, face hollow. He looked like he was dying. Her friend Jasmine ran over. What are you looking at? That boy. Oh, him. He’s been there for days. Creepy.
He’s not creepy. He’s hungry. Not our problem. He’s just a kid like us. Victoria looked at her lunchbox. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, a juice box, her whole lunch. the only food until dinner. Her grandmother’s voice, “We always share what we got.” Victoria grabbed her lunchbox, walked to the fence. “Victoria, where are you going?” She ignored them.
Up close, the boy looked worse, eyes glassy, lips cracked and bleeding. “Hi,” Victoria said softly. “I’m Victoria. You look hungry.” The boy tried to speak. Nothing came out. Victoria pushed her lunchbox through the fence. Take it. It’s okay. The boy grabbed the sandwich, ate it in four bites, tears streaming down his face. Victoria watched him eat everything.
The apple, the juice, even the crackers. When he finished, he looked at her. Thank you. His voice was broken. What’s your name? Isaiah, are you okay, Isaiah? He shook his head. No. Victoria’s heart broke. I’ll bring you lunch tomorrow, too. Isaiah’s eyes widened. You will? I promise. The bell rang.
Victoria had to go, but she looked back three times. Isaiah sat clutching the empty juice box, watching her. Isaiah blinked. The memory faded. He looked at the clock. 6:45 p.m. The community meeting started at 7:00. Something told him tonight was different. He grabbed his coat, touched the ribbon in his desk one more time. I’m coming, Victoria.
I don’t know if you’re there, but I’m coming. What Isaiah didn’t know, Victoria would be there. And she’d been thinking about him every single day for 22 years, too. Isaiah arrived at the South Chicago Community Center at 6:55 p.m. The building was old, chipped paint, flickering lights, but clean, cared for. Inside, folding chairs filled the room.
About 50 people were seated. Families, elders, young activists. Isaiah straightened his tie. His expensive suit felt wrong here. A woman at the registration table looked up. Name: Isaiah Mitchell. Mitchell and Associates. Her expression shifted, guarded. The developer. You’re actually here. Yes. Most developers send lawyers.
I’m not most developers. She handed him a name tag. We’ll see. Isaiah walked in, heads turned, whispers rippled. That’s him, the millionaire. probably here to bulldo everything. Isaiah found a seat in the back. A woman in her 60s stood at the front. Welcome. I’m Dorothy Carter, community board president.
Tonight, we will discuss the proposed development. She continued, “Mitchell and Associates wants to build housing and renovate our center, but we’ve heard promises before.” Murmurss of agreement. Mr. Mitchell will present his plans, then we ask questions. real questions. Dorothy looked at Isaiah. Mr. Mitchell. Isaiah stood, walked to the front. 50 pairs of eyes tracked him.
He opened his presentation. Architectural renderings, beautiful buildings, green spaces. Good evening. I’m Isaiah Mitchell. I grew up not far from here. I know what broken promises look like. That got attention. I’m proposing affordable housing, not luxury condos. 60% of units reserved for current residents at current rent rates.
