“You were fighting for people long before you called Marcus,” she said.

“Maybe.

But it’s easier to fight for somebody else.”

On the drive home, we passed my old apartment.

The shutters had been painted blue.

Someone had put a little wooden birdhouse above the stairwell.

I remembered teaching Daniel to ride his bicycle on that sidewalk.

He’d fallen twice, insisted the bicycle was broken, and finally pedaled an entire block while I ran after him laughing.