Henry sighs, and I can hear the heaviness in the exhale. “When I was 16, Noah and I were driving home from the basketball state championships. Our club won, and we were all pumped up, blaring the radio, arms dangling out the window, not a care in the world. I was behind the wheel, and I admit I was driving well over the speed limit. By a substantial amount. We were young and stupid, thinking we were invincible after the win.”

“We don’t understand the concept of our actions having consequences when we’re children,” I say gently, anxious to hear how this story ends. I hook my foot around his, ankle pressing against his sock, hoping he can sense the comfort I’m sending him.

“Ten minutes from the house, we got pulled over. The cop approached the car and asked Noah to step out of the vehicle. Not me. Noah complied and the cop started to search him. For what, I don’t know, but I went ballistic. It’s the one and only time I’ve ever name dropped my parents to anyone, pulling the token rich kid don’t you know who I am? card. To this day, what I did makes me sick. I acted like a fucking white savior, swooping in to save the day. I just didn’t know what else to do.

“When the cop ran my license and realized I was telling the truth, he started to backpedal. The apologies came pouring in. ‘So sorry, we had reports about a stolen car.’ ‘He matched the description of someone we’re looking for.’ ‘Mr. Dawson, I sincerely apologize for interrupting your night.’ Bullshit excuse after bullshit excuse that only fueled my rage. When we got home, I was in tears. I broke the law, but Noah paid the price. Why? Because he’s Black and I’m white? How fucked up is that? He shrugged it off, saying it wasn’t anything new. That was the turning point for my parents; they saw how unaffected he was by the blatant racism, such a casual, everyday occurrence for him, and realized they needed to do better and start speaking up on social issues important to me and my siblings.