All of this was a starting point. It was square one.

And the note in her hand—that was the hope.

Those two children are my definition and my picture and my sanctuary.

She wiped her eyes, hoping that Thomas or Sara wouldn’t come out of the darkness and see her tears. She opened the refrigerator and found the pizza.

Some people might think that struggling financially meant not buying a new coat for Christmas or not taking that vacation. But this—this right in her hand was what the struggle looked like, a teenage boy spending what little money he had on food.

But one thing she didn’t have to look hard for was affection.

Even though she failed to show it every day, it was shown to her.

The love of kids who didn’t quite understand what it even meant.

“Thank you, Lord,” she said before biting into the cold pepperoni. It wasn’t just the pizza she was thankful for, and He certainly knew it.

White-Trash Redneck

All eyes watched him as Thomas held the basketball, all fully aware that whoever scored next would win.

Dribbling the basketball felt as natural to Thomas as breathing or blinking. He’d grown up with a basketball in his hands, even—according to his mother—when he was just a baby and was given a soft, stuffed miniature basketball to play with. It was because of his father, of course. Dad loved the game and loved playing. Maybe he’d even been good at it at one point in his life. Thomas didn’t know. He just knew it had been the one and only thing that he and his father had shared. The love of playing, of watching the UNC Tarheels win and Duke Blue Devils lose, of watching the NBA and each having his own favorite player.

Moving had meant he wouldn’t be playing varsity ball at his old high school. Instead, he had to sit out this season because of the rules at Greer High. Something about kids transferring schools and unfair advantages and all that. It had been just another way being a new student made him stand out and feel separate from the rest of the kids. A lot of the guys on the team at school had snubbed him, not even giving him a chance to show them how well he played. He had begun to think he might not ever play at this school. Yet over the year, in gym class and playing pickup games at local parks like now, Thomas had developed a reputation as a great player.

That brought the good and the bad out in guys he played with.

It was no longer a secret that he was fast and that he could hit the shots. But the thing that nobody could really ever fully know until midway through the game was how badly Thomas wanted to win. It went back to playing with his father, playing with intense eyes on him with orders barked at his every move. Dad had ignited a fire deep inside him, so that every time he held that ball, he had to win. He needed to win as if it would assure his father staying off his case. Now he played to prove that he could win at any given time.