“So you made a fundraiser.”
He nodded.
“On HelpingHands. In your name. Because I’m fourteen, and they won’t let you if you’re fourteen.” He wiped his face with his sleeve. “I wrote it like you were writing it. About my hair. About Harper. I used a picture. The one of her in the hospital with no hair, and me next to her with my ponytail.”
“How much?”
He looked at the floor.
“Thirty-one thousand four hundred dollars,” he said.
The office was completely silent.
“In nine days,” Wyatt whispered. “Somebody on the news shared it. And then a bunch of people did.”
Mr. Burke cleared his throat again.
“Mrs. Holt, I should add that the accounts were created on a library computer here at the school during his study hall. That’s a violation of our technology policy.”
“Not now, Dave,” Graham said quietly.
Mr. Burke stopped talking.
I sat down. There was a chair behind me. I don’t remember finding it.
