I glanced at the name. Mark H. He was from my same town and had the same birth year, I remembered.
My fingers froze on the folder.
“You’ve got one you’ll want to see.”
I didn’t believe in fate, but I believed in irony.
And my high school bully was asking for my bank’s help. He was requesting $50,000.
But Mark’s credit score was wrecked, his cards were maxed out, he had two missed car payments, and he had no collateral worth listing. On paper, it was an easy denial.
Then I saw the purpose of the loan: emergency pediatric cardiac surgery.
I closed the file slowly and called Daniel. I asked honte him to let Mark in.
He was requesting $50,000.
A soft knock, then the door opened.
For a moment, I almost didn’t recognize him when he stepped inside.
The varsity linebacker was gone. In his place stood a thin, exhausted man in a wrinkled suit that didn’t quite fit. His shoulders slumped inward, as if life had pressed down hard. Mark didn’t recognize me at first.
