Mr. Harrison dropped the final pieces into the trash and brushed his hands together as if he’d just handled something dirty.
“A four-star General,” he repeated, his lips curling into a thin smile. “Sure. And tomorrow you’ll tell us your father has lunch with the President. Let’s be realistic. Generals don’t live in run-down apartments. Their kids don’t come to schools like this with patched sleeves and broken shoes. And they certainly don’t go unnoticed.”
Daniel swallowed hard.
His throat burned, but he forced the words out anyway.
“It’s true.”
Mr. Harrison tilted his head slightly. “What was that?”
“It’s all true,” Daniel said again, louder this time, even though his voice shook. “Everything I wrote.”
There was something in the way he said it—quiet, but unwavering—that seemed to irritate the teacher even more.
Mr. Harrison had spent over two decades in classrooms like this. He believed he understood the world. He believed he could look at a child and already know their limits, their future, their place.
And this boy, standing there in worn clothes, was challenging that belief.