With funding in hand, the real work began.
The rec center was a mess—cracked walls, broken windows, a roof that leaked worse than an open faucet. But Jamal and Rico didn't flinch. They called in every favor, every cousin who knew how to hold a hammer or wire a circuit.
The blueprint wasn't just about drywall and paint. It was about reshaping a space that once let kids fall through the cracks and turning it into one that caught them before they dropped.
But while the building changed, the streets didn't wait.
One evening, as Jamal locked up, he heard shouting across the street. A fight broke out between two teens—barely thirteen. One pulled a blade.
Jamal ran. He didn't hesitate. Grabbed the kid's wrist mid-swing. The boy flinched.
"Back up," Jamal barked.
The kid froze. Rico ran over too.
"No one's dying today," Jamal said. He took the knife and tossed it into a nearby trash bin.
Later, when the cops rolled up, Jamal stood in front of the teens. "They're not criminals. They're kids. Let *us* handle it."
The officers eyed him warily but drove off.
That night, Jamal sat in silence.
"You good?" Rico asked.
"I saw myself in that boy," he whispered. "And I hate that."
Rico nodded slowly. "Then make sure he doesn't grow into who we were."
The next day, those two boys showed up for cleanup duty. Jamal handed them gloves, and no questions.
Because sometimes saving the future starts with forgiving the past.