Not because I owed him that belief, but because it was possible for someone to begin changing after causing harm.

Outside the courthouse, he stood beside his car for a moment.

“Would you ever have coffee with me?”

“Not now.”

He accepted the answer, which was perhaps the first sign that he had heard me.

I got into my car and drove home.

On the passenger seat lay a receipt for a new front-door paint color.

I had chosen it myself: deep green, almost the shade of pine needles in winter.