Page 205 of Red Zone
“This initiative started as an idea after a holiday charity drive last December, when I saw firsthand what even the smallest gesture of support can mean to a young person who feels like the world has forgotten them.”
She presses the clicker in her hand, and the big screen behind her comes to life.
A slide fills the screen:
60% of youth who age out of foster care are unemployed by age 24.
The room shifts, quiet murmurs rippling through the crowd.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” she continues, her voice stronger now.
Another slide:
Youth given access to mentorship and skill-building programs are 70% more likely to finish school and avoid the juvenile justice system.
Her words carry over the quiet.
“When you give kids opportunities—when you teach them skills and show them someone believes in them—they find ways to believe in themselves. And that changes everything.”
I swallow hard, my chest tightening with every stat she clicks through.
Because every number up there?
That was me.
Every risk. Every failure waiting to happen.
And she…she’s the only person who’s ever made me feel like I could be more than just another kid who slipped through the cracks.
She pauses on the final slide:
A future worth fighting for.
Her voice softens just slightly, her eyes bright as she speaks her last words.
“Thank you for helping us build that future. Not just for one season. Not just for one name on the back of a jersey. But for every kid who’s still waiting for someone to believe in them.”
The applause is loud and full, rising around me like a wave.
She offers a polite little smile, stepping back from the podium as Claire comes forward to take over again.
But I can’t stop watching her.
I can’t stop thinking about how she stood up there and told my story without ever saying my name, leaving the decision of if and when to share completely up to me.
52
LYLA
The second I step up to the mic, I feel fine.
A little nervous, maybe. But focused. Steady.
The lights are bright, but the crowd blurs at the edges once I start talking.
I move through the first few slides with ease, my voice even, my grip on the clicker strong.
But halfway through—right around the third statistic—I feel it.
