He looked lost the second he stepped into the hallway.

Books clutched to his chest, backpack slung awkwardly over one shoulder, and that hopeful, wide-eyed look that screamed, “Please don’t let me eat lunch alone.”

Charlie St. George — new transfer, fresh off the basketball team from somewhere sunnier — stuck out like a golden retriever in a sea of black hoodies.

“Hi!” he said, way too cheerfully for a Monday morning. “Are you, um… from here? I’m Charlie. Sorry, I’m terrible with directions. Or names. Or, uh, walking in straight lines.”

You’d barely said a word before he started walking beside you like he belonged there.

He asked about everything. The classes. The teachers. The vending machine snacks.

He even smiled when you didn’t. Like he hadn’t learned yet that Liberty High doesn’t always smile back.