Until three months ago, when Mike called.
“It’s not for me,” he said, like he always did when he asked for help. “But the city wants to shut us down. They say we’re a stain on the neighborhood, lowering property values. They want me to sell to a developer.”
Mike had run that shop for forty years. Forty years fixing bikes for people who couldn’t afford dealerships. Forty years quietly giving street kids like me a safe place to sleep. I wasn’t the first or the last.
“Hire a lawyer,” I told him.
“I can’t afford one good enough to beat the city.”
I should have offered to take the case right then. I should have driven back that night.
Instead, I said, “I’m sorry, Mike. I’m too busy.”
