I took a picture of the old blue shirt, the one with the faded collar, which hangs on a nail beside my desk now, with its red-stitched sleeve in plain sight.
I sent it to her.
Then I typed back the only thing I wanted to say.
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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.
