The school year began with Mrs. McCarthy standing in front of her sixth-grade homeroom class.

She smiled at the familiar faces from last year. “Welcome to a new year, class! I love you all equally, and I’m so glad to have you here,” she announced warmly. But it wasn’t true. There was one boy in her class who sat hunched over at the front and Mrs. McCarthy disliked him. Harvey was hard to miss. He wore the same dirty clothes he had worn last year, and his hair was unkempt. He smelled like he never bathed, a sharp contrast to the fresh and eager faces around him. Mrs. McCarthy’s heart sank every time she looked at him. Last year, Harvey rarely played with his classmates, and his grades were constantly poor. He was always alone, sitting at the edge of the playground or staring out the classroom window. She remembered the notes she’d sent to his home about his poor hygiene and lack of participation. But nothing seemed to change. Today was no different. Harvey kept his head down, avoiding eye contact. Mrs. McCarthy felt a familiar wave of frustration. Why couldn’t he be like the other kids? She tried to shake off the negative thoughts, but they clung to her like a shadow. As the day wore on, her irritation grew. Every time she glanced at Harvey, she felt an urge to mark his work with red ink and give him failing grades. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t fair, but she struggled to muster sympathy for him. The school bell finally rang, signaling the end of the first day. Mrs. McCarthy watched as Harvey slowly gathered his things, moving with a sluggishness that made her heart ache with a mix of anger and pity. She wondered if there was more to his story, something hidden beneath the surface.