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.

"The redemption center on Union Avenue opens at six on Saturday," I said. "We start sorting at five."

She stared at me.

"In the morning?"

"In the morning."

She nodded slowly.

"Okay," she said.

I honestly didn't think she'd come.

At 4:50 on Saturday, in the gray, a small silver car pulled up beside our truck.

Madison got out in a sweatshirt and old sneakers, holding two paper cups of coffee.

My mother looked at her for a long time.

Then she handed her a pair of work gloves.

I won't pretend we became best friends.

We didn't.

We were two girls with sticky hands, sorting aluminum from plastic, not talking much.

But she came the next Saturday.

And the one after that.

At the end of the summer, she gave me a folded note.

It was four lines long, and it said what it needed to say, and I keep it in a drawer.