The Weight of a Pulse

In the year I could barely feed myself, I picked up a battered, brilliant, and destitute boy from a filthy alleyway.

His eyes were hollow. "Do whatever you want with me. I don't care."

I didn't do anything.

I just wiped the grime off him and helped him into a crisp, dry white shirt.

Stuttering, I told him earnestly, "L-live. Live well."

Years later, he got into the best university on his own and became the youngest tenured professor they'd ever had.

On a typical summer night when I went to pick him up, he coldly rejected the bright, sunny girl who adored him.