town."

Sullivan hesitated. The boy's desperation seemed genuine, but his ingrained biases were screaming

at him not to trust him. Still, the mention of his mother's heart condition gave him pause. She had

been complaining of chest pains recently.

He shoved Jamal into the back seat and slammed the door. He walked to the silver sedan and shone

his flashlight inside. On the passenger seat lay a small white paper bag with the logo of the local

pharmacy.

A cold dread washed over Sullivan. He pulled out his phone and dialed his mother's number. It rang

several times before she answered, her voice sounding frail and tired.

"Mark? Is that you?"

"Mom, it's me. Are you okay? Where's your car?"

"Oh, Jamal took it. He's such a sweet boy. I was feeling dizzy and realized I was out of my pills. He

offered to drive to the 24-hour pharmacy for me."

Sullivan felt as though the ground had dropped out from under him. The ugly truth of his

assumptions crashed over him in a wave of shame. "Mom... I pulled him over. I thought he stole it."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "Mark," she said, her voice laced with

disappointment. "Jamal is the boy who mows my lawn. He helps me with groceries. He's been

checking on me every day since your father passed. Why on earth would you think he stole my

car?"

Sullivan hung up the phone, feeling physically ill. He walked back to the cruiser, opened the back

door, and uncuffed Jamal. He didn't say a word at first, simply handing the boy the pharmacy bag.

"She needs this," Sullivan finally managed to say, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm... I'm going to

follow you back to her house to make sure you get there safely."

Jamal rubbed his wrists, looking wary. He nodded slowly and got back into the sedan.

The drive back to his mother's house was the longest of Sullivan's life. He watched the taillights of

the silver car, grappling with the realization of how close he had come to ruining a young man's life

—or worse—based entirely on prejudice. He had let his cynicism turn into bigotry, blinding him to

the truth.

When they arrived, Jamal hurried inside with the medication. Sullivan followed slowly. He found

Jamal sitting in the living room, holding a glass of water for his mother as she took her pills. She

looked pale, but the color was beginning to return to her cheeks.

She looked up at her son, her expression unreadable. "Thank you, Jamal," she said softly. "You can

go home now. Your mother will be worrying."