It started very young, and it made him proud.
He was only six years old, and had a dollar of his allowance left. He was walking to the store with his older siblings to pick up a candy bar. It was a summer evening; thin clouds stretched across the pale blue sky. It had been a hot summer. The children pushed their bikes closer to the gas station; their mother had asked the eldest to get a carton of milk. As a family they were going to go to a ball game at the park across the street from their house, a small-time team in a small-time league.
But when the children got home from the store, Brian Howards didn't have a candy bar. He didn't have his dollar. He didn't have anything. Nobody noticed; he didn't mention it. Kyle had the milk, and Jennifer had her bag of cracker jack, but Brian went up to his room without speaking to anyone. Later, after their mother had gotten home and they'd eaten dinner, they all went to the park and crowded into the bleachers. It was then his mother realized Brian wasn't eating a king-size Snickers bar or Three Musketeers. She asked him if he was saving it. He shook his head. She asked him if he had already eaten it, and he shook his head again. She asked him if he'd even bought a candy bar, and he shook his head for the third time.
"So you went to the store but didn't buy anything?" She asked.
"I was gonna." Brian watched a player smack a line drive to right field. "But there was a man outside the store with a sign that said 'Anything helps.' He was sitting on the ground."
"You gave your dollar to a hobo?" Kyle asked, aghast.
"Why'd you do something like that?" Jennifer scoffed.
"He didn't notice when I gave it to him, but when we were looking at snacks he came in and got one of the hot dogs from the bar."
"Gross!"
"Jennifer, please," their mother said. "I'm proud of you, Brian. You gave up something you wanted to help another person."
They continued watching the game amidst cheers. Their mother smiled to herself. Maybe she would be able to raise them on her own after all.
It went mostly unnoticed for a while. Brian would save up a dollar each week from his allowance and give them to the poor man that sometimes sat outside the gas station owned by Mr. Wimmersmaks. Sometimes he wouldn't be there. He started appearing less often, but Brian didn't really notice. After a few more weeks, the man disappeared entirely. Brian continued to set aside a dollar each week out of habit, placing it into a glass jar on his dresser. Sometimes change would enter into the jar as well, which he would exchange with his mother for bills periodically. She took a toll road to work, and needed the coins.
When he was eight, he realized that the money in the glass jar equaled or surpassed a hundred dollars. He counted it on his bed one Saturday afternoon, twice -- just to make sure. It was a hundred and thirty dollars, all told -- mostly ones -- and he didn't know what to do with it. He hadn't seen any other people like the man outside the gas station in a long time.
Going into the living room, he told his mother that he was going to a friend's house to play for the afternoon and, with the jar of money hidden in his backpack, got on his bike and began riding away from the house, looking around for somebody like the man outside the gas station. He rode farther than he ever had, and struggled to keep track of where he was. he knew he could call his mother or Kyle if he got lost, but would rather have done it on his own. It was a fall afternoon and the days were getting shorter. The sun had begun to set; he was in an area that had fewer trees and more buildings.
After a little while longer, he spotted a woman dragging a knapsack behind her, and another on her shoulders. They looked lumpy, loaded with possessions that had no business being carted around, instead preferring to sit happily in a closet, or on top of a mantle, or on a kitchen counter. Instead they knocked against each other with each shuffling step. The woman walked steadily under the dusk, staring ahead, unaware of the boy on the other side of the street with his own knapsack.
As he watched, she picked her eyes up and took in the colors of the sunset, smiling in a way that Brian thought he recognized. When there were no cars, he peddled across behind her and took out the jar.
His heart pounded as he went alongside her and slid to a halt, his brakes screeching loudly. She jumped, perhaps expecting something dangerous. Brian looked at the jar, balanced on one leg, and ran a hand across it, almost caressing, then held it out to her.
She shied away until she realized that there were bills inside; she carefully took it. Without waiting for her to say anything, he pushed his pedals hard, trying to hide his embarrassment.
Ten minutes later he was at a park. It was getting a bit colder. He sat on a bench watching a family at a play set. He knew where he was; it wouldn't take him very long to get home. He got a text from his mother asking him to come home early, so he jumped on his bike and went home, rushing to try and beat the curfew. He was a few minutes late, but he didn't think that his mother would mention anything.
Yet when he entered the house, panting from the race home, she stood in the kitchen with a mom face armed and ready to fire.
"I called Mrs. Anderson. She said that Hector was doing homework and hadn't heard from you. Care to explain where you've been?"
There was no reason for him to lie; there never had been. "I went to find someone to give my jar of money to."
His mother blinked. "Why didn't you just tell me that?"
Brian looked away, unable to help himself. "I didn't know if you knew about it. I guess I was embarrassed."
His mother leaned against the counter. "Of course I knew about. Brian, how much money was in there?"
"About a hundred and thirty dollars." His mother gasped and put her hand over her mouth. He heard her mutter something to herself, then thought for a moment and looked at him.
"So you took all your own money -- enough to buy something big, maybe even a new bike -- and instead you found someone? Who did you give it to?"
"There was a woman dragging a bag. A few miles south."
"You went all the way there? What was she wearing?"
"Old clothes. I . . . I knew that she could use the money."
"How did you know?"
Brian didn't answer, looking long at his sneakers. One part of him knew it would take a long time to tell, another part didn't want to tell her, to keep it his special secret, and a third part wondered if she would even understand.
"Okay." She said after a few seconds. "You don't want to tell me, and that's all right. I don't think that you're going to stop doing this anytime soon, so I just want you to make sure you're really giving it to someone that needs it." He nodded. "And . . . you shouldn't ever feel embarrassed for doing something like this. It's very kind of you; I'm proud of you, and I'm sure your dad would be proud too."
Brian nodded and went into his mother's arms before going to his room.
As they often do, words said to children aren't fully understood. Their meaning stuck up like an iceberg, with a small portion visible but most of it hidden.
So Brian grew, now aware that what he was doing was something to feel good about. Something to brag about. A year later he rode around again, finding a different person, and passed on the money, about a hundred dollars. The man, with an unkempt white beard and missing several teeth, smiled and chuckled to himself and hugged Brian with one arm, the other cradled around the jar.
Later, at school, he told all his friends what he'd done, happy to hear their amazed words and see their wide-eyed gazes. A hundred dollars! The things that a child could buy with that sort of money!
He bathed in childish adoration for a day, and then the next day there was something else to keep their attention; he was no longer important. But there was precedent now; they knew that about him. So, dutifully, for the next year he dropped a dollar into the jar every week -- if he had tried to stop it would have felt strange, he'd done it for so long -- and then, eleven months after the last time, he brought a dozen hand-made posters with him on the bus. With permission, he taped them up around the halls.
/Donation Drive!/ They said. /Help People In Need!/ The posters asked children to bring bills to him, so he could give more. There was a picture of his jar under the words, already half-full of crinkled singles.
The first week he got a few dollars. The next, about twenty. The third, twenty more. The fourth, on Monday, there was an announcement made by the principle about it, a fact that surprised Brian. He received two hundred dollars by Friday.
When he got home, he excitedly told his mother about it, and she nodded. "He called me and asked about it a few days ago."
"What?" Brian said. "Why?"
"He was worried that you were just doing it to scam the other children. I assured him that you would do no such thing. That you'd already given so much. I suppose he thought it was worthy. How much do you have now?"
"About three hundred dollars," he said. "The jar almost isn't big enough."
"Don't worry," his mother said. "We can figure out a better way to hold the money. When are you going to deliver it?"
"Tomorrow. I'll need to find someone. Jennifer said she would drive me in exchange for doing her dishes so I don't have to ride around."
His mother tsked. "I'll take you; that girl needs to learn to do her own chores."
Brian agreed, and the next morning they got into the car and drove downtown. A few blocks in, they saw a man sitting against a dirty brick wall, holding a cardboard sign that read "trying to get my family back." Brian looked at him for a few seconds and then shook his head. His mother wanted to ask why not, but she drove on instead.
They went around for a half-hour, looking. Brian had his face pressed against the window, wide eyes inspecting each person they passed. He shook his head to a few more people, people that many would have had no problems handing the money over to.
At one point they were waiting at a stoplight; to their right was a trio of men standing together, laughing. Brian told his mother to pull over as he watched them. They didn't notice and went on chatting like old friends, pulled together by a force beyond their control. All seemed dirty, trodden underfoot by simple things like the wind and rain.
"Okay," Brian said, picking the jar up from under his feet.
"Them?" His mother asked.
"Just one of them." He exited the car and walked up the street to them. As he got closer they noticed him approaching, carrying the jar with both hands. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt, untucked, and a windbreaker jacket over it. Eventually the three men gave him their full attention, aside from momentary confused glances at each other. Brian carried the jar to one of the men, pressing it into his hands, giving him a small smile and a nod, and then calmly walking back to his mother in the car.
"They all seemed the same," his mother said when the door was closed. "Why give it to him?"
"They all needed it, but I gave it to him because I know he'll share it with the other two."
"How do you know that?" His mother asked. They were driving home. "How could you tell?"
"I could tell in his smile." He looked at his mother. "I can't wait to tell everyone at school about this! Three hundred dollars and three people! They're all going to be so impressed!"
His mother almost slammed on the brakes. "Brian, is that why you're doing this? Because you want the other kids at school to like you?"
"What? Well, no . . . I don't think so. You said that I shouldn't be embarrassed by it. I like telling everyone about it at school, and they always say how nice it is."
"I said you shouldn't ever be embarrassed about doing a good thing. But that doesn't mean you should brag about it. You're doing the right thing, and I believe you're really helping people, but you have to remember why you're doing it."
This struck the boy. He looked down at his feet, changed from a growing young man that had just given away three hundred dollars back to a child feeling scolded by his mother. She didn't say anything else, feeling guilty about how much the words had affected him.
After a while, he nodded and said: "Okay, I'll remember. I promise."
"Good," She said. "Now, I think somebody deserves Dairy Queen."
Exactly a year later Brian handed a jar with almost five hundred dollars in it -- in larger bills this time -- to a man living under a bridge. The man, dirty and unshaven, nearly started weeping when he realized what he'd been given.
Another year passed. Every week he still put a dollar into the jar. Again he put up posters around his school, and, almost as an afterthought, asked Kyle to distribute a few posters at his university, and Jennifer at the high school.
A week before he would have made a final tally and gone into the city, Brian got a call from an unknown number on his phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, is this Brian Howards?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"My name is Amber Christopherson. I work at a place in the city called Restoring Lives. I heard about you through an intern that goes to college with your older brother. Restoring Lives is a company that works to help people living on the street, or those without the means to support themselves or their families. We're interested in partnering with you."
Brian stood in shock, feeling goosebumps crawl up and down his back. "What do you mean?"
"We want to help you find people to help."
When Brian didn't respond, Amber went on. "Our intern said that you seem to find certain people, and you won't just give it to anyone. She said that your brother didn't know how you could tell one from the other, but you did. In fact . . . " Brian heard papers rustle. "A man named Luther Favero came into our building about six months ago. We'd worked with him in the past to try and help him, but nothing stuck. When he came in, he said that a young man had given him half a thousand dollars. Walked right up to him and gave him a jar of bills. He used the money to find a job and a small apartment, something that we'd been trying to get him to do for years. Yet, somehow, you handing him that money got him to take action."
"Good," Brian said. "I'm glad that I was able to help him, but I'm afraid I won't be able to help you." Brian had done the research. He knew that going through a charity would make the money less, if it did even get to someone. He explained such.
"I certainly understand that," Amber said. "But I don't work for a charity organization. We're an assistance group, and, as such, we want to offer you assistance. You will control the fundraising and the money, we will supply you with someone that, we believe, deserves your help."
"You'll find people for me?"
"That's right. As I said earlier, we understand you have a unique process, so you'll have final say."
Sitting on the edge of his bed with his phone up against his head, Brian's mind churned. "I'll have to ask my mom," Brian said. "But I'll consider it."
"That's all we ask right now. Thank you, Brian."
"Why are you doing this?"
"The same reason you are, Brian. We want to help people."
"So you'd still hand the money over?" Brian's mother asked when he told her about it the next day, after listening in amazement. "They wouldn't control it?"
"I don't think so. I think they'd just tell me someone that they think I'd want to give the money to."
His mother nodded. "How much money do you have this year?"
"A little over a thousand dollars," Brian said, to his mother's surprise. "Kyle and Jennifer helped a lot. What do you think?"
"Well . . . I suppose I'd prefer if someone else drove around looking for people, without all that money in the car. But . . . I think it should be your decision."
"Okay," Brian said. He went into his room and sat on his bed.
The house was quiet. Kyle was at college, and Jennifer was out with a boyfriend. The only other person was his mother.
Closing his eyes, Brian began to talk to someone he hadn't seen in almost six years.
"Hello, is this Amber?" Brian asked the next day. "I'll do it."
"I'm glad," Amber said. "We already have someone lined up for you to look at. Why don't you come by our office on Friday, and you can decide then if you think he should receive the funds."
Brian agreed, and a few days later he and his mother were on their way to the city. His mother had tried to get him to dress up, but he refused, and told her not to, either. After about forty-five minutes of driving, they pulled to a building, parked, and entered. Inside was a big area that included a cafeteria, a small library and computer room, a small number of classes, and a group of offices. A woman with short blonde hair walked up to him and introduced herself as Amber. They shook hands. "Restoring lives does have a traditional 'soup kitchen,' but was created to help people change their lives," she said, leading Brian and his mother to the cafeteria. "It takes a tremendous amount of work, from both the organization and the person attempting to change. But, sometimes, it does happen."
"Where's the man you talked about?" Brian asked. The cafeteria was rather full, with some people wearing business clothes and others dressed in the mismatched uniforms of the down-on-their-luck.
"He's sitting there," Amber said, pointing. "Do you see him?"
"I think so." Brian said. He looked long, with an intense face. "Get him to smile. Smile or laugh," he said to Amber. "I'll be able to tell then."
Amber looked at him quizzically, but walked toward the man, sitting alone at a table with a book in his hands. He had dark, wrinkled skin, and Brian saw a network of scars on the back of his left hand. Amber sat down next to him and struck up a conversation easily. Within a few minutes she had him laughing. Brian's mother looked down at him and found her son nodding. After a few more minutes of talking, Amber said goodbye to the man and came back to the pair of them. "So?" She asked. "What do you think?"
"I think he'll have a very good day tomorrow," Brian said. "How did you get him to laugh so quickly?"
"I told him that someone was going to give him a thousand dollars. He's here tomorrow for a class; we can meet him when he gets done. Two in the afternoon."
"Okay. Sounds good. I'll see you then."
"Oh, uh, one small thing," Amber said. "For us to be able to help you, you have to be part of an organization. No, no, you won't need to join one, you can make your own. You really just need a name."
"Just a name?"
"That's all."
Brian stared into a corner of the room for a few moments. "Okay. We'll see you tomorrow."
The next day, dressed up, Brian, his mother, and Jennifer drove back to Restoring Lives. Jennifer had protested, but their mother had deployed a foreboding expression.
The jar of cash, a little over a thousand dollars, was balanced on Brian's legs. It was the first time he'd ever seen a hundred-dollar bill, and in fact there was more than one inside. Most of the bills were in ones, but fives, tens, twenties, and even fifties were present. There was even a two-dollar bill inside, about which Brian had to ask his mother. They pulled up to the building and were brought inside by Amber. She was frantic, worrying to get every detail correct. Brian pointed out that there weren't many details to get wrong.
"What's his name?" Brian asked after realizing he didn't know.
"Michael. His class will be done in a few minutes. Oh." Amber turned to him. "Did you decide on a name for your organization?"
"One-by-One," was all that Brian said.
They waited a short period until one of the classrooms opened and they heard a clamor of voices. "Michael!" Amber called out. "Could you come over here for a second?"
The man walked up to her, barely noticing Brian and his family. "What is it?"
"Brian has something he'd like to give you." She moved out of the way, and Michael's vision shifted to the boy carrying a jar. "He represents the One-by-One organization."
"I /am/ the One-by-One organization," Brian said. He held out the jar to Michael. "This is one thousand and forty dollars. It's yours."
Michael stood frightfully still. He took the jar and looked down its open neck at the nest of bills. His face seemed to shrink, and his eyes darted around. "Why?"
"Because you need it," Brian told him. "I know you do." Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. His voice lowered tremendously; perhaps only his mother heard him. "Michael."
"I . . . I-I . . ." Michael failed to say anything. He had to cover his mouth. "Thank you." His voice cracked. "I just can't believe it. Young man. Thank you."
"You're welcome," Brian said, somewhat subdued. "Keep it. 'S yours."
Michael nodded, gripped the jar to himself tightly, and wrapped his coat over it before going outside. Brian's mother put a hand on his shoulder and got him moving toward the door. He was quiet on the way home.
He, and One-by-One, grew. The posters became a yearly fixture at his middle school, later his high school, and his sibling's colleges. Two years after giving the money to Michael, he collected over two thousand dollars for a woman whose husband had died due to illness. A year after he gave an even greater amount to a man whose house had been repossessed.
With some reluctance he gave up the jar and the crumpled bills, instead opening an account with a bank in the city, and giving the yearly recipient a cash card useable anywhere. He sometimes neglected his homework in high school caring for the organization -- it threatened to grow beyond him -- but he never failed a class.
He continued working with Amber and Restoring Lives, each year being shown a potential receiver. Word had gotten around about his altruism, so around the time he would give the money away -- always the same time of year -- there was a great deal of excitement in the building. He grew into a shorter man so he usually went unnoticed.
When he was seventeen, in his senior year of high school, he began applying to colleges in the state, for business classes. There was no doubt that he would want to continue running One-by-One, and he knew that learning how to make it function better would only help him. He was eventually accepted, and started the process of getting a loan. That same month, however, he received a large packet in the mail and was surprised to find that he had won a scholarship. He had been voted as the state's "Caring Student," and, after a phone call, Amber confessed she had entered his name into the contest a year ago.
"You deserve it, Brian, you really do," she told him. "I've never seen anyone change lives like you do."
It was a full ride to the state college. After the summer passed he packed his things and moved into a dorm, quickly becoming the talked-about subject in the building thanks to the televised meet-and-greet with the Governor at the state capitol earlier that summer. He eagerly told anyone who would listen about it, but knew not to force it on them; his mother's words had stayed with him.
In January, a few months after giving a cancer patient without family two and a half thousand dollars, a female student in one of his classes told him she wanted to help. Her name was River Lee Molina, and she explained she was urged to attend business school after seeing his picture in the paper the spring before, saying: "You inspired me to want to do good."
"I really don't know how you could help me," Brian told her one Friday afternoon. "I've always done it on my own. I put up posters and tell people that I'm collecting money, and then I give the money away."
"That's not true," River said back. They sat in the cafe area of the school's meal building with the weak winter sun barely penetrating the window next to them. "In the article about you it said your brother and sister put up posters for you. It said you worked with an organization to find a person to give the money to."
"I . . ." Brian was halted. "I guess that's true, but I've always managed it on my own."
"You have a bank holding the money for you."
"You sure know a lot about this," Brian said, annoyed.
She leaned forward, and her dark hair was lit up; her half-latin skin appeared to be bronze. "I really want to help. I think we can help more people."
He surveyed her, trying not to blush. "Let me think about it," he told her. "I'll tell you on Monday after Economics."
She agreed and they started talking about homework; Brian couldn't help noticing how pretty her eyes were.
On Monday, in Professor Thompson's Business Economics class, Brian sat at the back against the cool stone wall. River sat at the front, trying not to look back at him. She talked to her friend, and before the class even started he knew she would be able to help him. He told her after the lecture ended, to her pleasure.
"I knew you'd say yes," she told him. "I could see it in your face. I have a ton of ideas already. I took a Photoshop class in high school so I can design the posters, we can talk to the Dean about an announcement before his address next month . . . oh, I bet we could get something in the school paper! And I wonder if we could set up a meeting with a news channel. They'd probably be willing to do a story, since you were in the paper last year."
She continued rattling off ideas. They talked for hours that day, their excitement growing.
Later on he told his mother and Amber about River, and both of them had similar reactions: knowledgeable sounds, some sort of shared language among older women.
He and River succeeded in raising almost three thousand dollars for that fall's gift, and, as both Amber and his mother foresaw, began to date. When he met her parents in the next state over, her mother embarrassed her by telling him, after seeing his picture in the paper, River had said: "I'm going to date him."
Their relationship was not a fairytale. Even though she said she wanted to help him raise the money, she began to feel upset at him for spending more time working on One-by-One -- now with a website and online donations -- than with her.
"Calls all the time!" She said at the beginning of their third year at college. "And when you aren't doing that you're studying! I need you to care about this relationship as much as I am!"
"I do care!" Brian responded. "But this is something that I must do. You know I love you; I also love One-by-One. Besides, there are only two months left in the giving period; it's the busy season."
"We never spend any time together!" She said. They were in his bedroom inside the apartment he and another student had rented. "You're always working . . . always talking about this donation or that donation! It's all you ever think about!"
"That's not true, and you know it!" Brian shouted. "River, this has been in my life for almost fifteen years! You're talking about it like it's some new fad I'm obsessed with!"
"Sometimes it does seem like you're obsessed with it!" River shouted back.
"Is that such a bad thing?! I /help/ people!"
"At what expense? At what point does your infatuation with this organization start to interfere with your life?"
"I don't know if you've noticed, River, but 'this organization' /is/ my life! This is how, and why, I came to school! This is why I study so hard! This is how you and I met, remember?"
"Yeah? Well, I guess I forgot why I thought it would be a good idea." Brian's phone buzzed. "Go on, answer it. I'm leaving."
"River, wait! River!" He followed her into the apartment's foyer.
"No, Brian! I'm tired of waiting for you to realize that I'm still in your life!" With that, she walked out, slamming the front door behind her.
Teeth clenched to the point of pain, Brian stormed back into his bedroom and snatched up his still-ringing cell phone. It was Amber. "Hello?"
There was a short period of silence. "What happened?" Amber asked.
Brian sat at his desk and leaned his forehead on his hand. "River and I had a fight. About One-by-One."
"Let me guess: She thinks it takes up too much of your time."
Brian sighed. "It's very important to me! I don't understand how she doesn't get that -- she's been helping me manage it for almost two years!"
"You didn't take her with you to give the money away last year, did you?" Amber asked. Brian thought back.
"No . . . no. She had a big paper to work on at the time though, so she said she'd rather work on that."
"Right. This year, take her with you."
"Do you think that will help?"
There was a little bit of noise from the other side of the phone. "I think it will. I still remember the first time I saw you give money . . . do you remember?"
"Yeah," Brian said. "His name was Michael. He hand scars on his hand." He thought back to that moment. "Okay. Hopefully I can convince her to give me another chance." He sighed. He'd suddenly become very tired. "What did you call about?"
"I've got the short list," Amber told him. "When do you want to come by and check them out?"
"Two weekends from now," Brian said after consulting his schedule. "Next weekend I have a couple of big projects to work on . . . and River and I had a date night planned."
"Okay. Don't give up on her Brian. Your mother and I both like her and we know you love her."
"Okay. I won't; I don't want to. Thanks, Amber." Brian sighed once more. "I'd better go. I . . . have a lot to do."
They disconnected, and Brian spent the next ten minutes sitting at his desk, staring at the wall, the last ten minutes crashing back and forth inside his head.
The next day Brian asked to meet with her, late in the morning. They had exchanged a few terse messages before that; the fight had cooled to a simmer. They found a quiet corner of the building and sat together, neither speaking. Brian wondered which of them would talk first, and then surprised himself by starting.
"I want you to come with me when I give the money next month." River, sitting next to him with their bags in-between them, didn't look at him.
"I don't know if I want to go."
Brian drew his legs up, sitting on his haunches all but for the wall against his back. "You remember my mom talking about my dad?" Faintly she nodded. "I don't remember much before he died, but I know I liked it when he was home. He had to spend a lot of nights sleeping at the station since he was on call a lot. My mom told me once . . . I got mad at him because he was going to be gone the next night and I wanted him to stay. I didn't understand how he could do something like leave me.
"I know that isn't how you feel, and I can't compare me to my dad and you to me like that. I don't know how our relationship would have changed if he hadn't died, but I'd like to think that eventually I would have understood why he was gone so much."
"So you think I'm a child?"
"Your dad was a pilot . . . he was gone a lot when you were a kid, right?" She nodded despite the fact that he had ignored her. "But he loved you?" She nodded again. "He left because it was what he did. Not only to provide for you, but to do something that he felt was important."
"And it's the same for you."
"Yes, and I think it's important that you see how important it is to me. I want you to come with me when I give the money next month because I think that will help you see how much this means to me."
She continued looking straight ahead. He stood up. "That's all I ask."
Still sitting, River crossed her arms and seemed to shrink. After a few seconds she said: "Okay."
"Great." He held a hand out to her. "How about we get some lunch?"
"So?" Amber asked when they met at Restoring Lives. "How did it go?"
"It went okay," Brian said. They stood in the building's entryway, listening to the din from the cafeteria. A storm cracked outside; the place was full of people with nowhere else to get out of the rain. "I was able to convince her to come with me when I give the money away. I tried to tell her that I understood how she felt, but I don't know how well that went over."
"I'm sure everything will work out fine," Amber said. "Two of the possible recipients are in the cafeteria now. The last one is doing something in the library." They pushed their way through the double doors into the cafeteria; the wet floor squeaked under the many feet that went back and forth.
"That's one of them back there," Amber said, pointing at a woman with stringy hair. "She-"
"Hey!" Somebody sitting at a table near them yelled. "It's the kid!" He pushed up from his table; Amber and Brian turned to look at him. "It's the kid that gives the money away!"
The entire room erupted into cheers. Men and women that hadn't had a proper joy in their lives for years or more stood up and applauded; soaked clothing ejected rain into the air. People came into the room to see what all the commotion was about, some prepared to break up a melee if so needed. The crowd grew. Brian's breath started to hitch.
"I bet you wish River was here to see this," Amber whispered into his ear. "Wave."
Holding up his limp hand, Brian shook it, his jaw trembling. He took a deep breath.
"Have you decided?" Amber asked him over the phone a week later. Brian sat in his apartment.
The three options Amber had presented to him, once the applause had died down, all seemed valid recipients to Brian. For the first time, he'd asked for more time.
"No," he told her. "I can't figure out why . . . I just don't know which one."
"Do you need to know anything else about them?" Amber asked.
Brian sighed. He rubbed a hand over his stubble. "I guess if I had to narrow it down to two, it would be Kathy and Paul. Renault seems to be doing all right for himself; I could help the other two more."
"I agree."
"Which one would you say needs it more?"
The other end of the line was silent. "That's hard to tell, as well as potentially illegal. Paul is in dire straights but doesn't seem to be falling any farther. Kathy . . ."
"Has a child," Brian completed. "I guess the answer is clear."
"Will River be coming?"
"Yes, she said she would be."
"Are you nervous about it?"
"Of course I am. I feel like I'm asking her to marry me. I know I shouldn't really be this nervous-"
"Of course you should. But if River doesn't believe in One-by-One as much as you do, then the best thing for you is to let her go. It's either that or stop One-by-One. Do you see yourself doing something like that? I don't."
"I kind of wish I had been able to see the jar," River said. She held the envelope with the prepaid card, worth over five thousand dollars. "But I guess this does make a lot more sense.
"We'd need a big jar to have all that money in it, or huge bills. I don't think I'd be comfortable having all that money sitting in my apartment. Anyway, this is easier to manage."
"Yeah." She smoothed her skirt. "Who are you going to be giving the money to?"
"Her name's Kathy. Some crazy legal thing happened and she lost the deed to her home . . . basically had it stolen back by the previous owners. I didn't understand it when Amber told me. She has a little boy and they're living out of a sister's garage. She doesn't really have anything."
"That's terrible," River intoned. Absent-mindedly, she ran her fingers over the edge of the envelope. "Do you always dress up when you give the money away?"
"Yes, always. Maybe not the first couple of times I did it . . . I think the first time I did it when I was ten. Handed a jar with three hundred dollars in it to a group of men standing on the street." Brian turned onto the road Restoring Lives was on. "Sometimes I look for them, or other people I've given money to, but I never see them. I don't know if that's good or not." He stopped the car and held out his hand for the envelope.
They entered the building and went into Amber's office. She greeted them.
"You look /lovely/ River," she said. "Are you ready to go now?" She asked Brian.
"I don't see why not."
"Good. Kathy is in the office next door. I had Kilroy ask to talk to her about her next steps. I have a feeling she thinks something is up."
Brian walked into the hallway. "Which one?"
Amber brought them next door and knocked. A voice inside asked someone else to wait a moment. The door opened and a big man with a long beard looked out, saw them, nodded, and closed the door again.
"Once he taps on the door again we'll go in," Brian told River. A moment later they heard the tap, and Brian went in.
As soon as Kathy, the stringy-haired woman from the cafeteria two weeks ago, saw him, she started bawling. Getting to her feet from the chair in the middle of the room she ran into Brian's arms, sobbing. Clutching her, Brian had to fight back his own tears.
Pulling himself away, Brian collected himself. "This envelope contains a check card worth five thousand, four hundred and two dollars, and eleven cents. It's yours." With a shaking hand he gave Kathy the envelope.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."
Brian and River drove back to the campus in silence. When they reached River's dorm they both got out.
They sat on the step together and looked at the sky.
"Does that always happen?" She asked finally. "Do you always get so emotional?"
"Yeah," Brian said. He wiped his mouth, trying not to think too hard about the emotions, should they start flowing once more.
There was another period of silence between them.
"Why?"
"I don't know," he said. "I should be used to it by now."
"Okay." She stood up. "I'm sorry Brian. I really am." He stood up too. "I had no idea that was how you really felt. If I had I never would have thought to make you put me first."
"River-" He reached out and took her hand. "I love you."
"I know. I love you too. I love you more than I did a month ago, or a week ago, or an hour ago." She hugged him, and he felt her wet cheeks. "I love you more than I've loved anyone. I can't believe I almost wanted to end it. I can't believe I didn't want to go with you and realize I was pushing you away for the very reason I wanted to get close to you in the first place." They stood together in the hug. "I'm so sorry."
Ten years -- and over a million dollars -- later, late at night, Brian looked up from his computer and found his son Michael standing in the doorway to his office. He was just six years old, had River's dark hair, and Brian's face. He was dressed in his pajamas and appeared sleepy. "Daddy?"
"Yes Michael, what is it?"
"Can I ask you about One-by-One?"
"Michael, it's ten o'clock. Can't I tell you in the morning?" Michael shook his head. Brian nodded and beckoned him in.
"What do you want to know?" Brian asked. Michael was a small boy, and sat in his father's lap with his head against Brian's chest.
"Why's it called that?"
"You mean One-by-One?" Brian asked. Michael nodded.
Brian took a moment.
"When I was six . . . same age as you . . . my dad died. He was a firefighter so I didn't get to see him very much, he had to stay at the fire station a lot of nights. I loved him a lot. He always made me laugh." He paused. "One day there was a fire, and it went badly. My dad was hurt and in the hospital; the doctor said he was going to die."
"Were you sad?"
"Of course." Brian imagined that day in the hospital, with the sky clear, horrific blue and the sun gusting hot wind in the open window, curtains blowing, room lit up like it was blazing, and his father lying in the bed, face and body covered in bandages; what little skin showed was burnt and mottled. "We all . . . had to say our goodbyes. We were all very sad. He wanted to see us one-by-one, the doctor told us. So, your grandmother went in first, and then Uncle Kyle, and then Aunt Jennifer, and then me, since I was the youngest.
"I didn't really know what was happening, I guess. I knew he was hurt, but other than I didn't understand. He had me sit on a chair next to his bed so he could see me; he wasn't allowed to get out of bed. He said to me: 'I love you, Brian.' I said I loved him too. 'I'll always be there for you,' he said.
"And then he shifted in his bed-" Brian remembered the sound of his dry skin cracking and breaking. "He said 'I want you to give me a smile.'"
Brian paused again. "So I gave him a smile. You know how you can be really sad, sometimes, and you see something funny or happy, and a little smile breaks out, but you're still sad inside?" Michael nodded. "Well my dad said 'I was hoping for a real smile, but I suppose that will have to do.' Then he looks at me and says. 'I want you to remember that smile, and remember how you feel now. And when you see people that have that smile on, and you see them trying to get past all the sadness in their life, you go and help them. You don't have to help them all at once, but help them. Help them one-by-one if you have to, but help them all the same. Make me proud. Will you do that for me, Brian?' Of course I said yes. I had to."
After staring at the ceiling for a second, Brian looked down. Michael had fallen asleep and was drooling a bit.
River stood leaning in the doorway. "Want me to take him?" She asked quietly.
"No," he said. "I think I'll keep him for just a little bit."
River nodded and left, leaving the two sitting in the darkness, in the light of the computer, in their love for each other.
He was only six years old, and had a dollar of his allowance left. He was walking to the store with his older siblings to pick up a candy bar. It was a summer evening; thin clouds stretched across the pale blue sky. It had been a hot summer. The children pushed their bikes closer to the gas station; their mother had asked the eldest to get a carton of milk. As a family they were going to go to a ball game at the park across the street from their house, a small-time team in a small-time league.
But when the children got home from the store, Brian Howards didn't have a candy bar. He didn't have his dollar. He didn't have anything. Nobody noticed; he didn't mention it. Kyle had the milk, and Jennifer had her bag of cracker jack, but Brian went up to his room without speaking to anyone. Later, after their mother had gotten home and they'd eaten dinner, they all went to the park and crowded into the bleachers. It was then his mother realized Brian wasn't eating a king-size Snickers bar or Three Musketeers. She asked him if he was saving it. He shook his head. She asked him if he had already eaten it, and he shook his head again. She asked him if he'd even bought a candy bar, and he shook his head for the third time.
"So you went to the store but didn't buy anything?" She asked.
"I was gonna." Brian watched a player smack a line drive to right field. "But there was a man outside the store with a sign that said 'Anything helps.' He was sitting on the ground."
"You gave your dollar to a hobo?" Kyle asked, aghast.
"Why'd you do something like that?" Jennifer scoffed.
"He didn't notice when I gave it to him, but when we were looking at snacks he came in and got one of the hot dogs from the bar."
"Gross!"
"Jennifer, please," their mother said. "I'm proud of you, Brian. You gave up something you wanted to help another person."
They continued watching the game amidst cheers. Their mother smiled to herself. Maybe she would be able to raise them on her own after all.
It went mostly unnoticed for a while. Brian would save up a dollar each week from his allowance and give them to the poor man that sometimes sat outside the gas station owned by Mr. Wimmersmaks. Sometimes he wouldn't be there. He started appearing less often, but Brian didn't really notice. After a few more weeks, the man disappeared entirely. Brian continued to set aside a dollar each week out of habit, placing it into a glass jar on his dresser. Sometimes change would enter into the jar as well, which he would exchange with his mother for bills periodically. She took a toll road to work, and needed the coins.
When he was eight, he realized that the money in the glass jar equaled or surpassed a hundred dollars. He counted it on his bed one Saturday afternoon, twice -- just to make sure. It was a hundred and thirty dollars, all told -- mostly ones -- and he didn't know what to do with it. He hadn't seen any other people like the man outside the gas station in a long time.
Going into the living room, he told his mother that he was going to a friend's house to play for the afternoon and, with the jar of money hidden in his backpack, got on his bike and began riding away from the house, looking around for somebody like the man outside the gas station. He rode farther than he ever had, and struggled to keep track of where he was. he knew he could call his mother or Kyle if he got lost, but would rather have done it on his own. It was a fall afternoon and the days were getting shorter. The sun had begun to set; he was in an area that had fewer trees and more buildings.
After a little while longer, he spotted a woman dragging a knapsack behind her, and another on her shoulders. They looked lumpy, loaded with possessions that had no business being carted around, instead preferring to sit happily in a closet, or on top of a mantle, or on a kitchen counter. Instead they knocked against each other with each shuffling step. The woman walked steadily under the dusk, staring ahead, unaware of the boy on the other side of the street with his own knapsack.
As he watched, she picked her eyes up and took in the colors of the sunset, smiling in a way that Brian thought he recognized. When there were no cars, he peddled across behind her and took out the jar.
His heart pounded as he went alongside her and slid to a halt, his brakes screeching loudly. She jumped, perhaps expecting something dangerous. Brian looked at the jar, balanced on one leg, and ran a hand across it, almost caressing, then held it out to her.
She shied away until she realized that there were bills inside; she carefully took it. Without waiting for her to say anything, he pushed his pedals hard, trying to hide his embarrassment.
Ten minutes later he was at a park. It was getting a bit colder. He sat on a bench watching a family at a play set. He knew where he was; it wouldn't take him very long to get home. He got a text from his mother asking him to come home early, so he jumped on his bike and went home, rushing to try and beat the curfew. He was a few minutes late, but he didn't think that his mother would mention anything.
Yet when he entered the house, panting from the race home, she stood in the kitchen with a mom face armed and ready to fire.
"I called Mrs. Anderson. She said that Hector was doing homework and hadn't heard from you. Care to explain where you've been?"
There was no reason for him to lie; there never had been. "I went to find someone to give my jar of money to."
His mother blinked. "Why didn't you just tell me that?"
Brian looked away, unable to help himself. "I didn't know if you knew about it. I guess I was embarrassed."
His mother leaned against the counter. "Of course I knew about. Brian, how much money was in there?"
"About a hundred and thirty dollars." His mother gasped and put her hand over her mouth. He heard her mutter something to herself, then thought for a moment and looked at him.
"So you took all your own money -- enough to buy something big, maybe even a new bike -- and instead you found someone? Who did you give it to?"
"There was a woman dragging a bag. A few miles south."
"You went all the way there? What was she wearing?"
"Old clothes. I . . . I knew that she could use the money."
"How did you know?"
Brian didn't answer, looking long at his sneakers. One part of him knew it would take a long time to tell, another part didn't want to tell her, to keep it his special secret, and a third part wondered if she would even understand.
"Okay." She said after a few seconds. "You don't want to tell me, and that's all right. I don't think that you're going to stop doing this anytime soon, so I just want you to make sure you're really giving it to someone that needs it." He nodded. "And . . . you shouldn't ever feel embarrassed for doing something like this. It's very kind of you; I'm proud of you, and I'm sure your dad would be proud too."
Brian nodded and went into his mother's arms before going to his room.
As they often do, words said to children aren't fully understood. Their meaning stuck up like an iceberg, with a small portion visible but most of it hidden.
So Brian grew, now aware that what he was doing was something to feel good about. Something to brag about. A year later he rode around again, finding a different person, and passed on the money, about a hundred dollars. The man, with an unkempt white beard and missing several teeth, smiled and chuckled to himself and hugged Brian with one arm, the other cradled around the jar.
Later, at school, he told all his friends what he'd done, happy to hear their amazed words and see their wide-eyed gazes. A hundred dollars! The things that a child could buy with that sort of money!
He bathed in childish adoration for a day, and then the next day there was something else to keep their attention; he was no longer important. But there was precedent now; they knew that about him. So, dutifully, for the next year he dropped a dollar into the jar every week -- if he had tried to stop it would have felt strange, he'd done it for so long -- and then, eleven months after the last time, he brought a dozen hand-made posters with him on the bus. With permission, he taped them up around the halls.
/Donation Drive!/ They said. /Help People In Need!/ The posters asked children to bring bills to him, so he could give more. There was a picture of his jar under the words, already half-full of crinkled singles.
The first week he got a few dollars. The next, about twenty. The third, twenty more. The fourth, on Monday, there was an announcement made by the principle about it, a fact that surprised Brian. He received two hundred dollars by Friday.
When he got home, he excitedly told his mother about it, and she nodded. "He called me and asked about it a few days ago."
"What?" Brian said. "Why?"
"He was worried that you were just doing it to scam the other children. I assured him that you would do no such thing. That you'd already given so much. I suppose he thought it was worthy. How much do you have now?"
"About three hundred dollars," he said. "The jar almost isn't big enough."
"Don't worry," his mother said. "We can figure out a better way to hold the money. When are you going to deliver it?"
"Tomorrow. I'll need to find someone. Jennifer said she would drive me in exchange for doing her dishes so I don't have to ride around."
His mother tsked. "I'll take you; that girl needs to learn to do her own chores."
Brian agreed, and the next morning they got into the car and drove downtown. A few blocks in, they saw a man sitting against a dirty brick wall, holding a cardboard sign that read "trying to get my family back." Brian looked at him for a few seconds and then shook his head. His mother wanted to ask why not, but she drove on instead.
They went around for a half-hour, looking. Brian had his face pressed against the window, wide eyes inspecting each person they passed. He shook his head to a few more people, people that many would have had no problems handing the money over to.
At one point they were waiting at a stoplight; to their right was a trio of men standing together, laughing. Brian told his mother to pull over as he watched them. They didn't notice and went on chatting like old friends, pulled together by a force beyond their control. All seemed dirty, trodden underfoot by simple things like the wind and rain.
"Okay," Brian said, picking the jar up from under his feet.
"Them?" His mother asked.
"Just one of them." He exited the car and walked up the street to them. As he got closer they noticed him approaching, carrying the jar with both hands. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt, untucked, and a windbreaker jacket over it. Eventually the three men gave him their full attention, aside from momentary confused glances at each other. Brian carried the jar to one of the men, pressing it into his hands, giving him a small smile and a nod, and then calmly walking back to his mother in the car.
"They all seemed the same," his mother said when the door was closed. "Why give it to him?"
"They all needed it, but I gave it to him because I know he'll share it with the other two."
"How do you know that?" His mother asked. They were driving home. "How could you tell?"
"I could tell in his smile." He looked at his mother. "I can't wait to tell everyone at school about this! Three hundred dollars and three people! They're all going to be so impressed!"
His mother almost slammed on the brakes. "Brian, is that why you're doing this? Because you want the other kids at school to like you?"
"What? Well, no . . . I don't think so. You said that I shouldn't be embarrassed by it. I like telling everyone about it at school, and they always say how nice it is."
"I said you shouldn't ever be embarrassed about doing a good thing. But that doesn't mean you should brag about it. You're doing the right thing, and I believe you're really helping people, but you have to remember why you're doing it."
This struck the boy. He looked down at his feet, changed from a growing young man that had just given away three hundred dollars back to a child feeling scolded by his mother. She didn't say anything else, feeling guilty about how much the words had affected him.
After a while, he nodded and said: "Okay, I'll remember. I promise."
"Good," She said. "Now, I think somebody deserves Dairy Queen."
Exactly a year later Brian handed a jar with almost five hundred dollars in it -- in larger bills this time -- to a man living under a bridge. The man, dirty and unshaven, nearly started weeping when he realized what he'd been given.
Another year passed. Every week he still put a dollar into the jar. Again he put up posters around his school, and, almost as an afterthought, asked Kyle to distribute a few posters at his university, and Jennifer at the high school.
A week before he would have made a final tally and gone into the city, Brian got a call from an unknown number on his phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, is this Brian Howards?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"My name is Amber Christopherson. I work at a place in the city called Restoring Lives. I heard about you through an intern that goes to college with your older brother. Restoring Lives is a company that works to help people living on the street, or those without the means to support themselves or their families. We're interested in partnering with you."
Brian stood in shock, feeling goosebumps crawl up and down his back. "What do you mean?"
"We want to help you find people to help."
When Brian didn't respond, Amber went on. "Our intern said that you seem to find certain people, and you won't just give it to anyone. She said that your brother didn't know how you could tell one from the other, but you did. In fact . . . " Brian heard papers rustle. "A man named Luther Favero came into our building about six months ago. We'd worked with him in the past to try and help him, but nothing stuck. When he came in, he said that a young man had given him half a thousand dollars. Walked right up to him and gave him a jar of bills. He used the money to find a job and a small apartment, something that we'd been trying to get him to do for years. Yet, somehow, you handing him that money got him to take action."
"Good," Brian said. "I'm glad that I was able to help him, but I'm afraid I won't be able to help you." Brian had done the research. He knew that going through a charity would make the money less, if it did even get to someone. He explained such.
"I certainly understand that," Amber said. "But I don't work for a charity organization. We're an assistance group, and, as such, we want to offer you assistance. You will control the fundraising and the money, we will supply you with someone that, we believe, deserves your help."
"You'll find people for me?"
"That's right. As I said earlier, we understand you have a unique process, so you'll have final say."
Sitting on the edge of his bed with his phone up against his head, Brian's mind churned. "I'll have to ask my mom," Brian said. "But I'll consider it."
"That's all we ask right now. Thank you, Brian."
"Why are you doing this?"
"The same reason you are, Brian. We want to help people."
"So you'd still hand the money over?" Brian's mother asked when he told her about it the next day, after listening in amazement. "They wouldn't control it?"
"I don't think so. I think they'd just tell me someone that they think I'd want to give the money to."
His mother nodded. "How much money do you have this year?"
"A little over a thousand dollars," Brian said, to his mother's surprise. "Kyle and Jennifer helped a lot. What do you think?"
"Well . . . I suppose I'd prefer if someone else drove around looking for people, without all that money in the car. But . . . I think it should be your decision."
"Okay," Brian said. He went into his room and sat on his bed.
The house was quiet. Kyle was at college, and Jennifer was out with a boyfriend. The only other person was his mother.
Closing his eyes, Brian began to talk to someone he hadn't seen in almost six years.
"Hello, is this Amber?" Brian asked the next day. "I'll do it."
"I'm glad," Amber said. "We already have someone lined up for you to look at. Why don't you come by our office on Friday, and you can decide then if you think he should receive the funds."
Brian agreed, and a few days later he and his mother were on their way to the city. His mother had tried to get him to dress up, but he refused, and told her not to, either. After about forty-five minutes of driving, they pulled to a building, parked, and entered. Inside was a big area that included a cafeteria, a small library and computer room, a small number of classes, and a group of offices. A woman with short blonde hair walked up to him and introduced herself as Amber. They shook hands. "Restoring lives does have a traditional 'soup kitchen,' but was created to help people change their lives," she said, leading Brian and his mother to the cafeteria. "It takes a tremendous amount of work, from both the organization and the person attempting to change. But, sometimes, it does happen."
"Where's the man you talked about?" Brian asked. The cafeteria was rather full, with some people wearing business clothes and others dressed in the mismatched uniforms of the down-on-their-luck.
"He's sitting there," Amber said, pointing. "Do you see him?"
"I think so." Brian said. He looked long, with an intense face. "Get him to smile. Smile or laugh," he said to Amber. "I'll be able to tell then."
Amber looked at him quizzically, but walked toward the man, sitting alone at a table with a book in his hands. He had dark, wrinkled skin, and Brian saw a network of scars on the back of his left hand. Amber sat down next to him and struck up a conversation easily. Within a few minutes she had him laughing. Brian's mother looked down at him and found her son nodding. After a few more minutes of talking, Amber said goodbye to the man and came back to the pair of them. "So?" She asked. "What do you think?"
"I think he'll have a very good day tomorrow," Brian said. "How did you get him to laugh so quickly?"
"I told him that someone was going to give him a thousand dollars. He's here tomorrow for a class; we can meet him when he gets done. Two in the afternoon."
"Okay. Sounds good. I'll see you then."
"Oh, uh, one small thing," Amber said. "For us to be able to help you, you have to be part of an organization. No, no, you won't need to join one, you can make your own. You really just need a name."
"Just a name?"
"That's all."
Brian stared into a corner of the room for a few moments. "Okay. We'll see you tomorrow."
The next day, dressed up, Brian, his mother, and Jennifer drove back to Restoring Lives. Jennifer had protested, but their mother had deployed a foreboding expression.
The jar of cash, a little over a thousand dollars, was balanced on Brian's legs. It was the first time he'd ever seen a hundred-dollar bill, and in fact there was more than one inside. Most of the bills were in ones, but fives, tens, twenties, and even fifties were present. There was even a two-dollar bill inside, about which Brian had to ask his mother. They pulled up to the building and were brought inside by Amber. She was frantic, worrying to get every detail correct. Brian pointed out that there weren't many details to get wrong.
"What's his name?" Brian asked after realizing he didn't know.
"Michael. His class will be done in a few minutes. Oh." Amber turned to him. "Did you decide on a name for your organization?"
"One-by-One," was all that Brian said.
They waited a short period until one of the classrooms opened and they heard a clamor of voices. "Michael!" Amber called out. "Could you come over here for a second?"
The man walked up to her, barely noticing Brian and his family. "What is it?"
"Brian has something he'd like to give you." She moved out of the way, and Michael's vision shifted to the boy carrying a jar. "He represents the One-by-One organization."
"I /am/ the One-by-One organization," Brian said. He held out the jar to Michael. "This is one thousand and forty dollars. It's yours."
Michael stood frightfully still. He took the jar and looked down its open neck at the nest of bills. His face seemed to shrink, and his eyes darted around. "Why?"
"Because you need it," Brian told him. "I know you do." Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. His voice lowered tremendously; perhaps only his mother heard him. "Michael."
"I . . . I-I . . ." Michael failed to say anything. He had to cover his mouth. "Thank you." His voice cracked. "I just can't believe it. Young man. Thank you."
"You're welcome," Brian said, somewhat subdued. "Keep it. 'S yours."
Michael nodded, gripped the jar to himself tightly, and wrapped his coat over it before going outside. Brian's mother put a hand on his shoulder and got him moving toward the door. He was quiet on the way home.
He, and One-by-One, grew. The posters became a yearly fixture at his middle school, later his high school, and his sibling's colleges. Two years after giving the money to Michael, he collected over two thousand dollars for a woman whose husband had died due to illness. A year after he gave an even greater amount to a man whose house had been repossessed.
With some reluctance he gave up the jar and the crumpled bills, instead opening an account with a bank in the city, and giving the yearly recipient a cash card useable anywhere. He sometimes neglected his homework in high school caring for the organization -- it threatened to grow beyond him -- but he never failed a class.
He continued working with Amber and Restoring Lives, each year being shown a potential receiver. Word had gotten around about his altruism, so around the time he would give the money away -- always the same time of year -- there was a great deal of excitement in the building. He grew into a shorter man so he usually went unnoticed.
When he was seventeen, in his senior year of high school, he began applying to colleges in the state, for business classes. There was no doubt that he would want to continue running One-by-One, and he knew that learning how to make it function better would only help him. He was eventually accepted, and started the process of getting a loan. That same month, however, he received a large packet in the mail and was surprised to find that he had won a scholarship. He had been voted as the state's "Caring Student," and, after a phone call, Amber confessed she had entered his name into the contest a year ago.
"You deserve it, Brian, you really do," she told him. "I've never seen anyone change lives like you do."
It was a full ride to the state college. After the summer passed he packed his things and moved into a dorm, quickly becoming the talked-about subject in the building thanks to the televised meet-and-greet with the Governor at the state capitol earlier that summer. He eagerly told anyone who would listen about it, but knew not to force it on them; his mother's words had stayed with him.
In January, a few months after giving a cancer patient without family two and a half thousand dollars, a female student in one of his classes told him she wanted to help. Her name was River Lee Molina, and she explained she was urged to attend business school after seeing his picture in the paper the spring before, saying: "You inspired me to want to do good."
"I really don't know how you could help me," Brian told her one Friday afternoon. "I've always done it on my own. I put up posters and tell people that I'm collecting money, and then I give the money away."
"That's not true," River said back. They sat in the cafe area of the school's meal building with the weak winter sun barely penetrating the window next to them. "In the article about you it said your brother and sister put up posters for you. It said you worked with an organization to find a person to give the money to."
"I . . ." Brian was halted. "I guess that's true, but I've always managed it on my own."
"You have a bank holding the money for you."
"You sure know a lot about this," Brian said, annoyed.
She leaned forward, and her dark hair was lit up; her half-latin skin appeared to be bronze. "I really want to help. I think we can help more people."
He surveyed her, trying not to blush. "Let me think about it," he told her. "I'll tell you on Monday after Economics."
She agreed and they started talking about homework; Brian couldn't help noticing how pretty her eyes were.
On Monday, in Professor Thompson's Business Economics class, Brian sat at the back against the cool stone wall. River sat at the front, trying not to look back at him. She talked to her friend, and before the class even started he knew she would be able to help him. He told her after the lecture ended, to her pleasure.
"I knew you'd say yes," she told him. "I could see it in your face. I have a ton of ideas already. I took a Photoshop class in high school so I can design the posters, we can talk to the Dean about an announcement before his address next month . . . oh, I bet we could get something in the school paper! And I wonder if we could set up a meeting with a news channel. They'd probably be willing to do a story, since you were in the paper last year."
She continued rattling off ideas. They talked for hours that day, their excitement growing.
Later on he told his mother and Amber about River, and both of them had similar reactions: knowledgeable sounds, some sort of shared language among older women.
He and River succeeded in raising almost three thousand dollars for that fall's gift, and, as both Amber and his mother foresaw, began to date. When he met her parents in the next state over, her mother embarrassed her by telling him, after seeing his picture in the paper, River had said: "I'm going to date him."
Their relationship was not a fairytale. Even though she said she wanted to help him raise the money, she began to feel upset at him for spending more time working on One-by-One -- now with a website and online donations -- than with her.
"Calls all the time!" She said at the beginning of their third year at college. "And when you aren't doing that you're studying! I need you to care about this relationship as much as I am!"
"I do care!" Brian responded. "But this is something that I must do. You know I love you; I also love One-by-One. Besides, there are only two months left in the giving period; it's the busy season."
"We never spend any time together!" She said. They were in his bedroom inside the apartment he and another student had rented. "You're always working . . . always talking about this donation or that donation! It's all you ever think about!"
"That's not true, and you know it!" Brian shouted. "River, this has been in my life for almost fifteen years! You're talking about it like it's some new fad I'm obsessed with!"
"Sometimes it does seem like you're obsessed with it!" River shouted back.
"Is that such a bad thing?! I /help/ people!"
"At what expense? At what point does your infatuation with this organization start to interfere with your life?"
"I don't know if you've noticed, River, but 'this organization' /is/ my life! This is how, and why, I came to school! This is why I study so hard! This is how you and I met, remember?"
"Yeah? Well, I guess I forgot why I thought it would be a good idea." Brian's phone buzzed. "Go on, answer it. I'm leaving."
"River, wait! River!" He followed her into the apartment's foyer.
"No, Brian! I'm tired of waiting for you to realize that I'm still in your life!" With that, she walked out, slamming the front door behind her.
Teeth clenched to the point of pain, Brian stormed back into his bedroom and snatched up his still-ringing cell phone. It was Amber. "Hello?"
There was a short period of silence. "What happened?" Amber asked.
Brian sat at his desk and leaned his forehead on his hand. "River and I had a fight. About One-by-One."
"Let me guess: She thinks it takes up too much of your time."
Brian sighed. "It's very important to me! I don't understand how she doesn't get that -- she's been helping me manage it for almost two years!"
"You didn't take her with you to give the money away last year, did you?" Amber asked. Brian thought back.
"No . . . no. She had a big paper to work on at the time though, so she said she'd rather work on that."
"Right. This year, take her with you."
"Do you think that will help?"
There was a little bit of noise from the other side of the phone. "I think it will. I still remember the first time I saw you give money . . . do you remember?"
"Yeah," Brian said. "His name was Michael. He hand scars on his hand." He thought back to that moment. "Okay. Hopefully I can convince her to give me another chance." He sighed. He'd suddenly become very tired. "What did you call about?"
"I've got the short list," Amber told him. "When do you want to come by and check them out?"
"Two weekends from now," Brian said after consulting his schedule. "Next weekend I have a couple of big projects to work on . . . and River and I had a date night planned."
"Okay. Don't give up on her Brian. Your mother and I both like her and we know you love her."
"Okay. I won't; I don't want to. Thanks, Amber." Brian sighed once more. "I'd better go. I . . . have a lot to do."
They disconnected, and Brian spent the next ten minutes sitting at his desk, staring at the wall, the last ten minutes crashing back and forth inside his head.
The next day Brian asked to meet with her, late in the morning. They had exchanged a few terse messages before that; the fight had cooled to a simmer. They found a quiet corner of the building and sat together, neither speaking. Brian wondered which of them would talk first, and then surprised himself by starting.
"I want you to come with me when I give the money next month." River, sitting next to him with their bags in-between them, didn't look at him.
"I don't know if I want to go."
Brian drew his legs up, sitting on his haunches all but for the wall against his back. "You remember my mom talking about my dad?" Faintly she nodded. "I don't remember much before he died, but I know I liked it when he was home. He had to spend a lot of nights sleeping at the station since he was on call a lot. My mom told me once . . . I got mad at him because he was going to be gone the next night and I wanted him to stay. I didn't understand how he could do something like leave me.
"I know that isn't how you feel, and I can't compare me to my dad and you to me like that. I don't know how our relationship would have changed if he hadn't died, but I'd like to think that eventually I would have understood why he was gone so much."
"So you think I'm a child?"
"Your dad was a pilot . . . he was gone a lot when you were a kid, right?" She nodded despite the fact that he had ignored her. "But he loved you?" She nodded again. "He left because it was what he did. Not only to provide for you, but to do something that he felt was important."
"And it's the same for you."
"Yes, and I think it's important that you see how important it is to me. I want you to come with me when I give the money next month because I think that will help you see how much this means to me."
She continued looking straight ahead. He stood up. "That's all I ask."
Still sitting, River crossed her arms and seemed to shrink. After a few seconds she said: "Okay."
"Great." He held a hand out to her. "How about we get some lunch?"
"So?" Amber asked when they met at Restoring Lives. "How did it go?"
"It went okay," Brian said. They stood in the building's entryway, listening to the din from the cafeteria. A storm cracked outside; the place was full of people with nowhere else to get out of the rain. "I was able to convince her to come with me when I give the money away. I tried to tell her that I understood how she felt, but I don't know how well that went over."
"I'm sure everything will work out fine," Amber said. "Two of the possible recipients are in the cafeteria now. The last one is doing something in the library." They pushed their way through the double doors into the cafeteria; the wet floor squeaked under the many feet that went back and forth.
"That's one of them back there," Amber said, pointing at a woman with stringy hair. "She-"
"Hey!" Somebody sitting at a table near them yelled. "It's the kid!" He pushed up from his table; Amber and Brian turned to look at him. "It's the kid that gives the money away!"
The entire room erupted into cheers. Men and women that hadn't had a proper joy in their lives for years or more stood up and applauded; soaked clothing ejected rain into the air. People came into the room to see what all the commotion was about, some prepared to break up a melee if so needed. The crowd grew. Brian's breath started to hitch.
"I bet you wish River was here to see this," Amber whispered into his ear. "Wave."
Holding up his limp hand, Brian shook it, his jaw trembling. He took a deep breath.
"Have you decided?" Amber asked him over the phone a week later. Brian sat in his apartment.
The three options Amber had presented to him, once the applause had died down, all seemed valid recipients to Brian. For the first time, he'd asked for more time.
"No," he told her. "I can't figure out why . . . I just don't know which one."
"Do you need to know anything else about them?" Amber asked.
Brian sighed. He rubbed a hand over his stubble. "I guess if I had to narrow it down to two, it would be Kathy and Paul. Renault seems to be doing all right for himself; I could help the other two more."
"I agree."
"Which one would you say needs it more?"
The other end of the line was silent. "That's hard to tell, as well as potentially illegal. Paul is in dire straights but doesn't seem to be falling any farther. Kathy . . ."
"Has a child," Brian completed. "I guess the answer is clear."
"Will River be coming?"
"Yes, she said she would be."
"Are you nervous about it?"
"Of course I am. I feel like I'm asking her to marry me. I know I shouldn't really be this nervous-"
"Of course you should. But if River doesn't believe in One-by-One as much as you do, then the best thing for you is to let her go. It's either that or stop One-by-One. Do you see yourself doing something like that? I don't."
"I kind of wish I had been able to see the jar," River said. She held the envelope with the prepaid card, worth over five thousand dollars. "But I guess this does make a lot more sense.
"We'd need a big jar to have all that money in it, or huge bills. I don't think I'd be comfortable having all that money sitting in my apartment. Anyway, this is easier to manage."
"Yeah." She smoothed her skirt. "Who are you going to be giving the money to?"
"Her name's Kathy. Some crazy legal thing happened and she lost the deed to her home . . . basically had it stolen back by the previous owners. I didn't understand it when Amber told me. She has a little boy and they're living out of a sister's garage. She doesn't really have anything."
"That's terrible," River intoned. Absent-mindedly, she ran her fingers over the edge of the envelope. "Do you always dress up when you give the money away?"
"Yes, always. Maybe not the first couple of times I did it . . . I think the first time I did it when I was ten. Handed a jar with three hundred dollars in it to a group of men standing on the street." Brian turned onto the road Restoring Lives was on. "Sometimes I look for them, or other people I've given money to, but I never see them. I don't know if that's good or not." He stopped the car and held out his hand for the envelope.
They entered the building and went into Amber's office. She greeted them.
"You look /lovely/ River," she said. "Are you ready to go now?" She asked Brian.
"I don't see why not."
"Good. Kathy is in the office next door. I had Kilroy ask to talk to her about her next steps. I have a feeling she thinks something is up."
Brian walked into the hallway. "Which one?"
Amber brought them next door and knocked. A voice inside asked someone else to wait a moment. The door opened and a big man with a long beard looked out, saw them, nodded, and closed the door again.
"Once he taps on the door again we'll go in," Brian told River. A moment later they heard the tap, and Brian went in.
As soon as Kathy, the stringy-haired woman from the cafeteria two weeks ago, saw him, she started bawling. Getting to her feet from the chair in the middle of the room she ran into Brian's arms, sobbing. Clutching her, Brian had to fight back his own tears.
Pulling himself away, Brian collected himself. "This envelope contains a check card worth five thousand, four hundred and two dollars, and eleven cents. It's yours." With a shaking hand he gave Kathy the envelope.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."
Brian and River drove back to the campus in silence. When they reached River's dorm they both got out.
They sat on the step together and looked at the sky.
"Does that always happen?" She asked finally. "Do you always get so emotional?"
"Yeah," Brian said. He wiped his mouth, trying not to think too hard about the emotions, should they start flowing once more.
There was another period of silence between them.
"Why?"
"I don't know," he said. "I should be used to it by now."
"Okay." She stood up. "I'm sorry Brian. I really am." He stood up too. "I had no idea that was how you really felt. If I had I never would have thought to make you put me first."
"River-" He reached out and took her hand. "I love you."
"I know. I love you too. I love you more than I did a month ago, or a week ago, or an hour ago." She hugged him, and he felt her wet cheeks. "I love you more than I've loved anyone. I can't believe I almost wanted to end it. I can't believe I didn't want to go with you and realize I was pushing you away for the very reason I wanted to get close to you in the first place." They stood together in the hug. "I'm so sorry."
Ten years -- and over a million dollars -- later, late at night, Brian looked up from his computer and found his son Michael standing in the doorway to his office. He was just six years old, had River's dark hair, and Brian's face. He was dressed in his pajamas and appeared sleepy. "Daddy?"
"Yes Michael, what is it?"
"Can I ask you about One-by-One?"
"Michael, it's ten o'clock. Can't I tell you in the morning?" Michael shook his head. Brian nodded and beckoned him in.
"What do you want to know?" Brian asked. Michael was a small boy, and sat in his father's lap with his head against Brian's chest.
"Why's it called that?"
"You mean One-by-One?" Brian asked. Michael nodded.
Brian took a moment.
"When I was six . . . same age as you . . . my dad died. He was a firefighter so I didn't get to see him very much, he had to stay at the fire station a lot of nights. I loved him a lot. He always made me laugh." He paused. "One day there was a fire, and it went badly. My dad was hurt and in the hospital; the doctor said he was going to die."
"Were you sad?"
"Of course." Brian imagined that day in the hospital, with the sky clear, horrific blue and the sun gusting hot wind in the open window, curtains blowing, room lit up like it was blazing, and his father lying in the bed, face and body covered in bandages; what little skin showed was burnt and mottled. "We all . . . had to say our goodbyes. We were all very sad. He wanted to see us one-by-one, the doctor told us. So, your grandmother went in first, and then Uncle Kyle, and then Aunt Jennifer, and then me, since I was the youngest.
"I didn't really know what was happening, I guess. I knew he was hurt, but other than I didn't understand. He had me sit on a chair next to his bed so he could see me; he wasn't allowed to get out of bed. He said to me: 'I love you, Brian.' I said I loved him too. 'I'll always be there for you,' he said.
"And then he shifted in his bed-" Brian remembered the sound of his dry skin cracking and breaking. "He said 'I want you to give me a smile.'"
Brian paused again. "So I gave him a smile. You know how you can be really sad, sometimes, and you see something funny or happy, and a little smile breaks out, but you're still sad inside?" Michael nodded. "Well my dad said 'I was hoping for a real smile, but I suppose that will have to do.' Then he looks at me and says. 'I want you to remember that smile, and remember how you feel now. And when you see people that have that smile on, and you see them trying to get past all the sadness in their life, you go and help them. You don't have to help them all at once, but help them. Help them one-by-one if you have to, but help them all the same. Make me proud. Will you do that for me, Brian?' Of course I said yes. I had to."
After staring at the ceiling for a second, Brian looked down. Michael had fallen asleep and was drooling a bit.
River stood leaning in the doorway. "Want me to take him?" She asked quietly.
"No," he said. "I think I'll keep him for just a little bit."
River nodded and left, leaving the two sitting in the darkness, in the light of the computer, in their love for each other.