He hasn't told grandma. It would break her heart. But sometimes love means sacrifice. And Deshawn is running out of options.
What Deshawn didn't know was that the next evening he would have to make a choice, and that choice would bring men in suits to his door.
Thursday evening, 6:00 p.m. The forecast said 50% chance of showers. By 5:30, the sky turns black. Wind picks up. The temperature drops 15 degrees in 20 minutes.
By 6, it's not rain. It's a wall of water. Thunder shakes buildings. Lightning cracks so bright it turns night into day for half seconds.
Flash flood warnings light up every phone. Emergency alert. Severe thunderstorm warning. Seek shelter immediately.
The city advises everyone to stay indoors.
Deshawn is at the store mopping the floor. Mr. Kowalski watches the news, shaking his head. This is bad. Really bad.
Rain hammers the windows. The lights flicker. Deshawn, go home. Your grandma's going to worry.
Go. I'll pay you for the full shift. Deshawn pulls his hood up. Thin zip-up jacket, not waterproof.
The only coat he owns. He steps outside. Within 3 seconds, he's soaked.
Two blocks from home. Lightning flashes. In that split second of light, Deshawn sees him. The elderly white man from yesterday standing outside a medical building.
No umbrella, no coat. Soaked through, dress shirt plastered to his body, trying to hail a cab, waving frantically, cabs pass without stopping. The man stumbles, catches himself on a lamp post, face pale, lips slightly blue, hand clutching his chest. Deshawn's mind races.
Grandma's waiting. She's probably panicking. I'm already soaked. I need to get home.
He's a stranger. He's clearly rich. Look at that watch. He'll be fine.
Someone else will help.
But the man staggers again. His breathing, even from 15 feet away, Deshawn can see his chest heaving. He looks like Papa. That day, the day before he fell, Papa had been breathing like that.
Tired. Too tired, said. His chest felt tight. Went to work anyway.
Fell 40 feet the next morning.
Then Deshawn notices something strange. A black Lincoln Town Car is parked 50 feet away. Hazard lights blinking. Driver's door opens.
A man in a suit steps out holding an umbrella. The old man sees him, waves him off angrily. No, I said no. Get back in the car.
The driver stops. Mr. Reynolds, please. I told you I'm not going with Edwards. I'll find my own way home.
The driver hesitates, retreats to the car. Deshawn is confused. Why would someone refuse their own ride in a storm when they're clearly sick?
Thunder cracks. The old man's knees buckle. He goes down, catches himself on his hands, kneeling on the wet sidewalk. People rush past.
Cars splash through puddles. No one stops. The man tries to stand. Can't.
His arms give out. Deshawn moves before he decides to. Sir. Sir, are you okay?
He runs, kneels next to the man, rain pouring down both their faces. The man looks up, eyes unfocused. I just I need to get home. Can't find my phone.
I can't. His voice is slurred. He's in medical distress.
Where do you live? Rittenhouse Square, 18th Street. Building with the green awning. I can't remember the number.
Rittenhouse Square, 12 blocks, opposite direction of home. Through the worst of the storm, Deshawn's phone is at home charging. He can't call 911. Can't call grandma.
He looks at the town car. Sir, your driver's right there. No. The man grabs Deshawn's arm.
Not with him. I won't. I can't explain. Please.
I need to walk home.
He's not making sense. But he's desperate. And he's sick. This isn't about the storm.
This is about something else. Pride, a fight, doesn't matter. What matters? This man is going to collapse if someone doesn't help.
The stakes flash through Deshawn's mind. If I walk this man 12 blocks, I'll be soaked for over an hour. Risk of getting sick. Grandma will be terrified.
I might lose tomorrow's shift. We need $28. But if I walk away and this man dies, I'll carry that forever.
Deshawn takes off his jacket, thin, soaked, basically useless, but it's something. He drapes it over the man's shoulders. I'll walk you home, sir. Lean on me.
The man looks at him, a long searching look. You don't have to do this. You don't even know me. I know you need help.
That's enough. Come on. Deshawn pulls the man to his feet. The man is heavy, at least 190.
Deshawn is 5 feet 7 inches, maybe 135, soaking wet. They start walking. Behind them, the driver gets out of the car again. Mr. Reynolds.
The old man doesn't turn around. Deshawn doesn't know it yet. This walk, this choice, this moment, it's about to change everything. Every step through that storm was a choice.
And William Reynolds was counting every single one. Blocks 1 through three. Physical battle. Rain comes in sheets, almost horizontal.
Wind tries to knock them over. Deshawn's sneakers. Holes in both soles fill with water every step. Squish.
Squish. William Reynolds is nearly dead weight against him. Leans on Deshawn's shoulder, breathing ragged. Deshawn's shoulder already aches.
His legs burn. They've walked two blocks. 10 more to go. Lightning strikes close.
Maybe two blocks away. Thunder so loud Deshawn feels it in his chest. William stumbles. Deshawn catches him.
I got you. Just keep moving. One foot, next foot, one foot, next foot. Deshawn repeats it in his head like a mantra.
His teeth chatter. His hands are numb. Water streams down his face. Can't tell rain from sweat anymore.
Don't let him fall. Don't let him die.