"That's the man whose name is on everything," Nadine replied.
"Hmm." Mrs. Patterson studied him the way a scientist might study an unusual specimen. "Don't look like much."
"They never do," Nadine said. "Watch Isaiah for me?"
"Of course, baby. You be careful."
Nadine helped Isaiah out of the car. He clutched his one-eared rabbit and looked up at William with huge, confused eyes. "Are you the bad man?" Isaiah asked.
The question hit William like a physical blow. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I hope not."
Isaiah considered this, then nodded solemnly, and allowed Mrs. Patterson to lead him away.
Zuri tugged at William's torn sleeve. "Follow me," she said.
They walked for 15 minutes through streets that felt like a war zone. Every third house was boarded up. Every other lot was empty, just dirt and debris where homes had stood for generations. Demolition equipment sat idle on corners, waiting for dawn to resume its work. The graffiti followed them like a chorus of accusation: This was our home. Harrison stole everything. 52 families. Where do we go?
52 families. William filed that number away. If someone had been forging his signature, this went far deeper than one house.
Finally, Zuri stopped. "There," she said.
The house stood at the end of a dead-end street: small, two-story, white paint peeling, porch sagging. Plywood covered every window. A massive red X was slashed across the front wall like a wound.
But William could see what it had been: flower boxes, now empty; wooden fence, now collapsed; tire swing, now hanging by a single, frayed rope. This house had been loved.
"Grandma bought this place in 1975," Zuri said softly. "Worked at Ford for 30 years to pay it off. Mama grew up here. I was born in the upstairs bedroom."
William stared at the red X.
"There's something inside I need you to see," Zuri said. "The real reason I brought you here."
Zuri slipped through a gap in the fence, worn smooth from repeated use, and William followed, tearing his coat once more on the rusted wire. The backyard was overgrown, weeds reaching waist high, but a narrow path had been beaten through them. Someone had been coming here regularly, visiting, holding on.
The back door was unlocked. Zuri pushed it open, and the hinges screamed—a sound like something dying, like the house itself was crying out. Inside, dust motes swirled in the afternoon light that filtered through cracks in the plywood. The air was thick and still, heavy with the smell of abandonment, mildew, and old wood and memories left to rot.
The furniture was still there: a couch with a hand-knitted afghan draped over the back, colors faded but still visible—purple and gold, someone's favorite colors. A dining table with four chairs, one of them a child's booster seat. A television with a cracked screen, remote still on the armrest as if someone had just set it down. Family photos hung on the walls, their glass clouded with dust, but the images still visible: graduations, weddings, birthday parties, Christmas mornings with presents piled under a tree. A grandmother holding a newborn baby: Zuri, William realized.
"They gave us 30 minutes," Zuri said, her voice echoing in the empty rooms. "The men with the papers. They said we had 30 minutes to leave or they'd arrest Mama for trespassing in her own home." She ran a finger along the dining table, leaving a trail in the dust. "We couldn't take everything. We couldn't take anything, really. Just clothes, just what we could carry. Mama was crying so hard she could barely see. Isaiah kept asking when we were coming back." She paused at the booster seat. "He still asks, every night."
Nadine had entered behind them. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching William with eyes that dared him to look away. He didn't.
"This way," Zuri said. She led him to the kitchen.
The refrigerator stood silent and dead, but something was still attached to its door, held by magnets shaped like fruit—apples and oranges and bananas, the kind you buy at a dollar store and keep for decades because they remind you of simpler times. A drawing, crayon on paper, faded but still vibrant: a house with a red door and white walls; a tree with green leaves and small red apples; four figures standing in front—a woman with curly hair, two children holding hands, and a fourth figure floating on a cloud with angel wings and a golden halo. Our Home Forever was written across the top in a child's careful letters.
"I drew that last year," Zuri said. "The angel is Grandma. She died 3 months before they took the house. Heart attack. Mama found her sitting in her favorite chair looking out the window at the apple tree."
William stared at the drawing: the simple lines, the hopeful colors, the word forever that had turned out to be a lie.
"She's watching us," Zuri continued. "That's what Mama says. Grandma's watching from heaven to make sure we're okay." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I wonder what she thinks about us living in the car? About what happened to her house?"
"There's something else," she said after a moment. "The real reason I brought you here."
She led him down a narrow hallway, past a bathroom with a dripping faucet—the sound impossibly loud in the silence, like a heartbeat counting down—to a bedroom door. The room was small, a child's room: twin bed with a faded comforter covered in stars and moons; dresser with stickers on the drawers—unicorns and rainbows and Disney princesses; drawings covering every inch of wall space, dozens of them, all in the same careful hand.
But Zuri walked past all of it to the doorframe. And William's heart stopped.
There, carved into the wood, were marks. Six of them. Each one labeled in careful handwriting with a date and a measurement: Zuri, age 2, 2'9". Zuri, age 4, 3'2". Zuri, age 6, 3'8". Zuri, age 7, 3'11". Zuri, age 9, 4'3". Zuri, age 10, 4'5".
The last mark was dated 1 month ago, the day before the eviction.
"Grandma made the first one," Zuri said softly. She walked to the doorframe and stood beside it, and the top of her head aligned exactly with that final mark. "The day I turned 2. She said she'd keep doing it until I was taller than her. She was 5'2"." She traced the lowest mark with her finger, the mark made when she was barely more than a baby, when the world was safe and home was forever. "She didn't make it. She died." Zuri's voice cracked, just barely, just enough to reveal the grief beneath the determination. "And then we had to leave, and she never got to see me grow up."
William stared at the marks. Six lines carved into wood with a kitchen knife or maybe a screwdriver. A grandmother's love measured in inches. A child's growth documented with more care than most corporations gave their financial records.
He thought of another doorframe, another set of marks: Lily, age 1, 2'2". Lily, age 3, 2'11". Lily, age 5, 3'5". Lily, age 7, 3'10". Lily, age 9, 4'1".
A progression that ended too soon. In a hospital room with machines beeping their final notes. With a father holding his daughter's hand as it grew cold. With a wife who never recovered, who left him 2 years later because looking at him reminded her too much of what they'd lost.
"My daughter had one of these," William whispered. The words came out broken, jagged.
Zuri looked at him. "Had?"
"She died. 15 years ago. She was 10 years old." He paused. "Just like you."