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of him.
“No one cares about me,” he whispered, the tough-guy act completely crumbling. “Not my teachers. Not my dad, who left us. Just my mom, and she’s never home.”
There it was—the truth underneath the anger. I didn’t offer him pity. Pity is cheap. I offered him purpose.
“I care,” I said quietly. “And right now, I need you to care about the kid who continue reading …
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