For twelve years, the whole school called her "Trash Girl" because her mother collected cans for a living — until graduation night, when she said one sentence into the microphone and four hundred people rose to their feet in tears.

"Mrs. Walker," he said.

"Mr. Granger."

"I don't suppose you remember me."

She looked up at him.

"I remember," she said gently. "June, six years ago. You'd dropped an envelope behind the gym dumpster. There were a lot of twenties in it."

"Fourteen thousand, two hundred dollars," Mr. Granger said. "The band's trip to Washington. I'd put it on the roof of my car while I looked for my keys. I drove off. I didn't know until I got home."

He drew a ragged breath.

"You found it. You drove it to my house. You rang my doorbell and held it out. And I said thank you, ma'am, and shut the door."

"You were in a hurry."

"I was in a hurry," he said, "and I never looked at your face again. I have walked past the name Molly Walker on the honor roll for four years, and I never once put it together."