He swallowed hard, ran his finger over the logo, and thought aloud to himself. This must be important to someone. I could have sold it as cardboard. I could have thrown it in the trash.
I could have forgotten about him, but something inside him, that vestige of the upbringing his mother had given him, didn’t remain. He barely slept that night. He held the envelope as if it were a pillow, wondering if he was making a fool of himself, who cared, an envelope that had fallen behind the trash can.
Who would thank a street child for returning something? Even so, at dawn, he made the strangest and most important decision of his life. He was going to climb to the door of that enormous building and return it, not because he expected a reward, but because he felt that not doing so would be betraying his mother.
When she reached the glass entrance, she stopped. She looked at the security guard, who had already frowned at the sight of the boy approaching the door. Rabatia’s heart pounded.
The urge to return to the uncomfortable comfort of the street was overwhelming. Then he took the first step inside. As Raby entered the lobby, the first thing he felt was the cool air conditioning against the warm skin of someone who had spent the day outdoors.
The floor was so shiny he was afraid he’d slip. He stepped back slightly, as if his own body were telling him, “This place isn’t for you.” The goalkeeper approached him with his hand raised.
“Hey, kid, this isn’t the place to beg. Turn around and go back.” He gripped the envelope tighter. “I didn’t come here to ask for anything, sir,” he replied in a low but clear voice.
“I just came to return this. It was in the trash back there. It has the company name on it.” The security guard looked him up and down. Faded T-shirt, baggy shorts, flip-flops that barely stayed on.
Then he looked at the dirty envelope, crumpled at the edges. “Well, throw it in the trash again. This is a big company, not some seedy lost and found.” Rabi wanted to obey, turn his back, disappear, but then he remembered his mother’s phrase, the one she repeated like a prayer.
He took a deep breath. “It’s not mine, young man. I think it’s important. I just want to give it to someone on the inside.” The security guard rolled his eyes, fed up with arguing with a street kid.
She could have simply fired him. But at that moment, a young receptionist who had been listening to the conversation from afar looked up. Her name was Julia. She had worked there for years and knew what it was like to see someone treated as if they were worthless.
“Let him speak, Mr. Mauro,” she said without raising her voice. “If necessary, we’ll take the envelope and give it to him.” Rab turned to her with a grateful look. She gestured toward the reception desk.
Come here, boy. What’s your name? Title. All right, Rabbi. Show me that envelope. He stretched his arms across the marble counter, barely reaching it. Julia pulled out the envelope, wiping the dirt off the paper on it, as if she were wiping away prejudice instead of dirt.
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