He hesitated.
Added:
Please come.
Inside, Diane Campbell had returned.
She had reached her car.
Put the key into the ignition.
Then stopped.
She saw Wesley through the windshield.
Small figure.
Shoulders curled.
Alone.
She could not drive.
She returned to the lobby.
Bradley was speaking with Chelsea.
Diane approached the customer-service desk.
“I need to speak to the manager.”
Chelsea gestured.
“He’s right there.”
Diane walked toward Bradley.
He smiled professionally.
“Mrs. Campbell.”
“Who was that boy?”
Bradley’s smile thinned.
“Fraud attempt.”
“He looked about ten.”
“Unfortunately they start young.”
Diane stared.
“You verified that?”
“We're handling it.”
“You sent him outside crying.”
Bradley’s face cooled.
“Mrs. Campbell, I assure you—”
“You laughed at him.”
“That is not what happened.”
“I heard it.”
Bradley lowered his voice.
“You may have misunderstood.”
Diane realized something.
He had already rewritten the event in his head.
Maybe he would rewrite it on paper too.
She looked toward the entrance.
Wesley remained outside.
Diane turned.
She was going to sit with him.
Then Bradley called:
“Mrs. Campbell?”
She stopped.
She hated herself for stopping.
“Your transaction this morning is complete.”
“I know.”
“Then have a pleasant day.”
A dismissal.
Diane looked toward the doors again.
She walked slowly.
Before reaching them, another employee stopped her with a question about a survey.
Three minutes passed.
Then five.
Outside, Wesley remained alone.
Jerome stood near the rear hallway.
His eyes moved toward the parking lot every few seconds.
Bradley noticed.
“Delivery coming at the back entrance.”
Jerome looked over.
“Handle it.”
Jerome hesitated.
Then obeyed.
The moment disappeared.
Wesley opened Grandma’s letter again.
You are braver than you believe.
Her handwriting shook.
People may judge your shoes, your clothes, your neighborhood, or things you cannot change. Let them reveal themselves. Do not let them change you.
Wesley wiped his face.
A dark Mercedes entered the lot.
He barely noticed.
It stopped near the entrance.
The rear door opened.
Lawrence Brooks stepped out.
Six feet two.
Gray suit.
Silver beginning at the temples.
No visible hurry.
Until he saw the bench.
Then everything about him changed.
Wesley.
Crying.
Alone.
Lawrence’s jaw tightened.
He walked directly toward him.
“Champ.”
Wesley looked up.
The moment he saw his uncle, whatever strength remained collapsed.
“Uncle Lawrence.”
Lawrence crouched.
Wesley threw both arms around him.
The boy cried into a suit worth more than anything he had ever owned.
Lawrence did not care.
He held him.
One hand against the back of Wesley’s head.
“Take your time.”
Wesley tried speaking.