He was in the hospital, badly hurt. When I visited, he joked, “Turns out I’m not bulletproof.” I told him to rest. He asked, “But who’s going to help now?” That’s when I stepped in. I started walking seniors to the store, cleaning up trash, organizing food drives. Others followed. Our block slowly changed. Two months later, Marcus returned, still healing. “You turned this place around,” he said. “No,” I replied. “You did. I just kept it moving.”
We hosted a block party. Laughed. Shared food. The landlord even lowered our rent—fewer complaints, more lease renewals. Marcus’s mother used to say, “We’re not here just to survive. We’re here to leave it better than we found it.” And somehow, we did. The street that once scared me became home. Not because someone fixed everything—but because someone cared. Maybe that’s all it takes: one person to stay. To walk someone home. To plant something and hope it grows.