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.

Madison stood alone under a light with her arms wrapped around herself.

She had left the handbag somewhere.

Her hands looked strange without it.

"I didn't know," she said.

"I know you didn't."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No," I said. "It doesn't."

She looked at the pavement.

"I called you that name for twelve years."

"Yes."

"I carried that bag," she said, "every day, and said it was worth more than your house. And your mom was the reason I still had it."

I didn't say anything.

It was the truest thing she'd ever said, and it didn't need any help from me.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me," Madison said. "I just..."

She stopped.

She tried again.

"Is there anything I can carry? That sounds stupid."

I thought of my mother's alarm.

I thought of 3:40, and the cold steering wheel, and the sour smell of the alleys.