“Mrs. Eriksen? Would you stand up?”
In the back, a round woman in a green cardigan rose slowly from a folding chair, wiping her hands on her skirt.
“There was always a sticky note on it,” she said. Her voice shook. “It said, For whoever’s card is empty. A friend.”
“It was never the same amount,” she added. “Sometimes eight dollars. Sometimes two hundred. But it never missed a Friday. Not even the Friday after Christmas. Not even last winter.”
“Did you ever find out who it was?” Mr. Lombardi asked.
“No, Tom. I always thought it was somebody rich.”
A few kids laughed nervously.
Mr. Lombardi did not.
“Four months ago,” he said, “Raul found this book at the bottom of a supply closet, under a bucket and a box of rubber gloves. It belonged to Stan Faulkner.”
Every head in the gym turned and looked at me.
My hand went up to my mouth.
