headed for a coffee shop on the concourse, thinking tea and a sweet treat would make her feel better about not making her deadline. Once she had a scone and herbal tea, she picked up a copy of the Tribune that someone had left behind and lazily flicked through it.
She stopped at an article in the second section of the paper. The headline—No More $$$ for Kids—caught her eye, but it was the photograph that captured her attention. She set the mug of tea onto the table and, hands shaking, studied the picture. It must have been taken a few weeks ago—maybe mid- or late April—because the trees in the background were still in bud. The man in the photo was standing in front of a two-story building. He looked different now than he had that day. He had hair, though not much, and looked a bit bulkier than she remembered. He was a man now, not a boy. Dana wasn’t certain she could trust her memory though. For years that day had been only a jumble of sounds—shouts and screams—mixed with the grinding of metal on metal. Faces remained a blur, but she could vividly recall the strength of arms and hot frantic breath on her face. It had to be him.
Dana read the caption beneath the photo—“Matt Rodriguez, executive director and founder of KidsFirst Place”—then skimmed through the short article. His organization, a drop-in center and outreach program for inner-city kids, had learned that a funding request was going to be halved due to municipal budget constraints. A camp for those kids was in jeopardy of not running this summer.
“‘It’s a shame that the city doesn’t put kids first,’ Rodriguez said. ‘Surely politicians can figure out that investing money early in a kid’s life will pay off a hundredfold for them and for the city. Or can’t they?’”
She dropped the paper onto the table. This was the moment she’d thought about many times over the past twenty years, but faced with it, she was at a loss. Every system in her body seemed to have slowed down, except for her heart, which pounded against her rib cage. Of course, she had options. She could wait for her body to calm itself, finish her tea and go home. Or she could... What? Try to find him?
Face it, Dana. You only have two choices: ignore this or check it out.
But instinctively she knew there was really no choice at all. She dug into her purse for her phone, looked up KidsFirst online, then gathered up her things and left the coffee shop and hailed a cab.
“Sure this is the right address?” asked the cabbie, eyeing her.
“Yes.”
He sighed. “Your call,” he said and flipped down the meter, heading for the South Side. Traffic was light and the taxi pulled up in front of a beige brick building before Dana had a chance to figure out what she would say or do if he was there. Especially if it really was him.
After paying the cabbie, she stood on the sidewalk a moment, staring at the storefront window and the name stenciled on it—KidsFirst Place. Dana took a deep breath and went inside. The interior was bigger and more welcoming than she’d expected from the outside. A large open space that continued as far into the building as Dana could see. She walked past an alcove of coat hooks and cubbyholes, a bulletin board crammed with scraps of paper and beside it, a whiteboard displaying a schedule of events and programs.
No one was around. Dana paused to scan the room for a reception desk. As she walked farther in, she came across two women tidying up a reading lounge. She also spotted someone hunched over a computer in a row of desktops. One of the women noticed her and came toward her.
“Can I help you?”
“Um, I’m looking for Mr. Rodriguez.”
“Are you from the media?”
Dana wondered how many media types carried briefcases and wore designer suits. She made an effort not to sound patronizing when she replied, “No, I’m not.”
“Just that Matt’s been kinda swamped lately, with people wanting follow-up interviews.”
“It’s a personal matter.”
“Um, okay. He’s in his office. Down that way, past the kitchen. If the door’s closed, just knock. We’re pretty informal here.”
“Thank you.” Dana walked past the woman, thinking they might be informal, but they were definitely protective. She stood a moment outside the closed door, its sign urging, “Knock and come in!” and tried to calm herself. The telltale signs of anxiety—feeling flushed, sweaty palms and rapid heart rate—that Dana had spent almost a lifetime attempting to control rose up.
She tapped once on the door and flung it open before she could change her mind. The man sitting at the desk looked up from the computer in front of him. Dana first noticed the flash of alarm in his dark brown eyes, then she saw his hands on the keyboard. She remembered those hands.
As he started to stand, she blurted out, “You saved my life.”
MATT STARED IN stunned silence at the woman on the other side of his desk.
“Twenty years ago? On the Green Line to Oak Park?” she prompted.
The memory rushed at him like the train coming into the station. He’d been seventeen. It had been around 3 p.m. on a late-winter day, and except for some other teens he didn’t know on the far end of the platform, the subway station had been pretty much deserted. He had been on his way to his gang initiation. The sound of jeering caught his attention. Two girls were fighting, surrounded by a small circle of onlookers. Matt tried to ignore them. But another loud cheer made him look back. That was when he realized it wasn’t a fight so much as a jostling, though one girl in particular was on the receiving end of the pushing and shoving. Her backpack flew across the platform and Matt tensed. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the headlights of the incoming train reflected on the tunnel walls. There was a scream, followed by a girl flying through the air, her hair streaming behind her, onto the train tracks.
But she hadn’t been this...this woman. Had she? Dry mouthed, Matt said, “Why don’t you take a seat?”
She set a briefcase on the floor and pulled up the chair adjacent to his desk. “You remember, don’t you. I can see it in your face.”
“I...I do remember that day but you... Your hair...was longer and...” Matt searched through his memory for other details.
She touched manicured fingers to the knot at the base of her neck. “A bit shorter now and I have it up at the moment...” Her voice, already only a thin whisper, trailed off.
He waited for her to catch her breath. Memories of that day had been with him for twenty years, lurking just beneath the surface. He could see himself charging down the platform but had no recollection of jumping onto the tracks. Just that he was suddenly there, grabbing onto a thick winter coat and then wrapping his arms around a girl. Lifting her, then shoving her up onto the platform. Scrambling after her as the train roared into the station and screamed to a halt. It all happened in seconds. Fractions of seconds.
Matt leaned across the desk for a closer look. That day he hadn’t noticed the color of her eyes, just the stark horror in them. He looked at her—the greenish-brown tints in eyes now blurred with memory, the scatter of pale freckles across her nose.
“How old were you then?”
“Fifteen.”
