Marcus was quiet, skinny, and angry in a way that Blake recognized instantly, because it was the same anger he'd carried his whole life. Except Blake's anger had come wrapped in money and privilege. Marcus's came wrapped in an empty refrigerator and a father in prison.
"Why do you even come here?" Marcus asked him one day, bouncing a basketball against the wall. "You're rich. You don't need this place."
Blake thought about it.
"Because a few months ago, I was the worst version of myself in front of a lot of people," he said. "And somebody showed me I didn't have to stay that way."
Marcus looked at him suspiciously.
"That's corny."
Blake grinned.
"Yeah. It is. But it's true."
The test came on a Friday in August.
Blake was locking up the youth center a little after seven when he heard shouting from the alley behind the building.
He walked around the corner and stopped.
Three older boys, maybe seventeen or eighteen, had Marcus pinned against the dumpster. One of them was holding Marcus's backpack upside down, shaking everything out onto the wet pavement. Another had his fist pulled back.
"You owe us, little man," the biggest one said. "Your brother said you'd pay."
"I don't have it!" Marcus shouted. His voice cracked. "I told you, I don't have it!"
Blake felt the old heat rising in his chest. The heat that had always told him what to do. Hit first. Hit hard. Make them afraid.
He could do it, too. These were street kids, not trained fighters. He could put all three of them on the ground in less than ten seconds. Six months ago, he wouldn't have thought twice.
Then he heard Daniel's voice in his head, as clear as if the man were standing right beside him.
"Strength isn't what you can do to someone. It's what you choose not to do."
Blake breathed in. Slowly. Ten minutes of standing still, compressed into one breath.
Then he walked forward. Not fast. Not aggressive. Hands open, at his sides.
"Hey, guys," he said calmly. "What's going on?"