“No. I like hearing about different careers. Last month a marine biologist talked.”

“It’s hard to compete with someone like that.” He motioned to the table. “Could I sit with you while you finish your lunch? If I leave, I’ll have to go back to work.” He hung on to his smile, but it would have been easier to maintain if he’d had a shot of caffeine.

“Uh, yeah, I ’spose that would be okay.” He slid back onto the bench seat, leaving room for his unexpected lunch companion.

Steve sat and folded his hands on the table. “You’re Noah Walsh, right?”

The boy squinted at him. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”

“I overheard those two kids who were talking to you.”

A faint flush crept across Noah’s cheeks, and he hung his head. “They think I’m a sissy.”

“Because of this?” Steve tapped the notebook.

“Yeah.”

“My son used to carry one like that. He liked to draw.”

“Me too.” Noah pulled out his sandwich and peeled back the plastic wrap.

“May I look?”

The boy shrugged. “Sure. I guess.”

Steve opened it. Page after page was covered with sketches. Most were living creatures—animals, birds, fish . . . and yes, a butterfly. A few were inanimate objects. All the drawings were exceptional for a child this age.

“I’m impressed.” He studied an intricate rendering of a dragonfly. “Do you take art lessons?”

“No.” The sandwich was disappearing fast.

“You should.” The kid had real talent. “Have you ever talked to your parents about that?”

Noah tore off a piece of crust and rolled it into a ball between his fingers, forehead crinkling again. “No. I don’t know who my dad is. My mom died when I was eight. I just got a new foster family.”

Tough life.

“Have you ever showed your foster parents your drawings?”

“Once.” He smashed the ball against the tabletop with his thumb. “But my foster dad’s more into sports, you know?”

Steve took a long, slow breath.

Yeah, he did.

But that was just one of Noah’s problems. Absent parents and peer ridicule were two more strikes on top of a sports-oriented foster father who didn’t appreciate—or encourage—other talents.

And three strikes could put you out.

This was the type of kid who all too often ended up on the street—unless someone cared enough to encourage their interests and help them develop their talents and self-esteem.

“Do they have an art program at school?” Steve pushed the notebook back toward Noah.

“We have art class once a week. I don’t know if there’s anything else. I’ve only been here three months.”

Ouch.

Changing schools near the end of the academic year would be hard on even the most self-confident kid.

“What grade are you in?”