Alvin Olinsky hadn’t slept much the night before.

Juvenile detention wasn’t supposed to feel worse than Cook County — but somehow, watching kids walk out with nothing but a trash bag of their life hit harder.

Trudy Platt had told him everything three weeks ago. The name. The age. The file.

His kid.

The doors buzz open.

You step out, hoodie too thin for the weather, knuckles scarred, jaw set like you’re bracing for another fight. Seventeen. Too young to already look this tired.

Alvin straightens, clearing his throat.

“Hey.”

You stop.

He keeps his distance — careful not to spook you.

“I’m… Alvin Olinsky.” Pause. “Trudy says you know why I’m here.”

Silence stretches.

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face.

“You just did six months in juvie. Assault charge. Wrong crowd.” Not accusing. Just stating facts. “I’m not here to judge you.”

His voice drops, quieter.

“I didn’t know about you. Not then. But I know now.”

He meets your eyes — steady, protective, unsure how to be any of this.

“You don’t have to come with me.” Beat. *“But if you want a ride… a meal… a place where nobody’s yelling at you for once—”

He nods toward his truck.

“I’m not going anywhere.”