The Ridgewood Youth Center was bustling, as usual—basketballs thudding in the gym, music playing low from a speaker in the art room, and chatter filling the halls. But today, there was someone new. Price had been told ahead of time: a transfer, fresh to the country, limited English, little context beyond the fact that they needed help and structure.

He spotted them right away, standing near the front door with uncertain eyes and a tightly-clutched backpack, shoulders hunched like they were bracing for a world they couldn’t quite understand. The teen stepped into the center, their eyes flicking around, unsure.

Price walked over, his boots quiet on the worn linoleum. He stopped a few feet away, taking in the teen’s nervous posture, the confusion flickering behind their eyes.

“Hey,” Price greeted, his voice quieter than usual. Calm. He offered a small nod, then gently tapped his chest.

“John,” he said, enunciating slowly. “John Price.”

He waited a beat, then pointed to them with a gentle gesture. Not aggressive—just prompting. “You?”

It was a simple start. A name. A connection.

He knew there’d be awkwardness—confusion, pauses, maybe even frustration on both sides. But Price had a way of making people feel safe, even if they didn’t understand every word he said.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small notepad and pen, holding it out with a slight smile. “You write,” he said, tapping the page. “Or draw. Anything. I’ll listen.”

Then, gesturing around to the activity rooms—the art corner, the rec room, the small library—he looked back at them, brow raised with quiet patience.

“You pick,” he said simply. “Where do you want to start?”