What’s this smell? Get out. Immediately. I regret it, sir. You crawled out of a sewer. You’re stinking up my classroom. Grabbed Byron’s hand. Dropped it. Wiped each finger with a tissue. I can play, sir. Turned to the class. Did everyone hear that? Laughter. Go home, boy. You leave. I said you don’t belong here. Byron didn’t move. No, sir. I can play. The laughter stopped. Whitfield’s face turned pale. Humiliating. Seized Byron’s collar. Dragged him to the Steinway. Slammed him onto the bench. Hit record. Show us. You’ll be our laughingstock. Byron placed his fingers on the keys. What happened next? Not yet. First, you need to know who Byron Palmer really is.
South Philadelphia doesn’t let you forget where you are. The row houses lean into each other like tired men waiting for a bus. Brick walls stained brown from decades of rain. Fire escapes rusted halfway to orange. The smell of fried onions drifts from a corner shop at 6:00 in the morning, mixing with exhaust from delivery trucks that rattle down narrow streets before sunrise. This is where Byron Palmer grew up. This is where he still lives. Third floor, end of the hall, apartment 3F. The door sticks when it rains. The hallway light has been out for two months. But inside the floors are swept clean. The curtains are white, washed every Sunday. A small kitchen table covered with a plastic cloth, two chairs, a Bible, and a bottle of pills. That bottle belongs to Loretta Palmer, Byron’s grandmother, 71 years old, chronic lung disease, the kind that doesn’t go away, only gets managed. She breathes through a nebulizer twice a day and sees a specialist once a month. Every visit costs money. Every refill costs money. Everything costs money.