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car much longer either , I think. Scooby and I shake hands.
    â€œYou want to work again tomorrow?” I ask him.
    â€œYou bet,” he says.
    â€œGreat. I’ll meet you at the shelter at eight am.”
    â€œI’ll be there,” Scooby says. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    T ime is passing quickly now. A whole day will fly by without me even noticing. That’s how busy I am. The phone just doesn’t stop ringing. It turns out a reliable courier was just what this town needed.
    Just two weeks have passed since I delivered that first package. In that time, I’ve earned over twelve hundred dollars. I gave Scooby a raise and bought him some new clothes. I bought clothes for myself too. But not a suit. People don’t want a courier who looks slick. They want a guy who looks like he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.
    So, I bought myself a uniform at a professional supply store. It’s a dark blue jumpsuit with lots of pockets. I need the pockets because I have to carry a lot of things—a receipt book, an order book, a few pens and my cell phone, to name just a few. I even have a name tag that says WALTER in large red letters. Underneath that, it has the name of my business. People take one look at me and they know I’m serious. And that makes them trust me.
    At the end of every day, I meet up with Scooby at a coffee shop. I got him a uniform too. So we sit in our blue jumpsuits and sip coffee. We talk about how things went that day and how we can do better. I’ve got Scooby delivering packages now too. He looks completely different. Even though he’s still sleeping at the shelter, he looks full of pride. He got a haircut and some new glasses. And now that he’s eating regularly, he doesn’t look sick all the time.
    I’m still sleeping in my car. But now I’m just doing it to save money. Soon enough, I’ll be able to get my own place again. I can’t wait for that. I’ll be off the street. And I am never, ever going back.
    Now it’s Monday, the start of my third week working for myself. I’ve been at it all morning. I’m sitting in my car, having a donut and taking a break. I’m in a part of town I know well. Across the street is the pawnshop where I sold my suit. And in my wallet is the pawn ticket.
    I get out of my car and cross the street. In the window there are all kinds of things people have sold—a bowling ball, a computer, a tennis racket, a pair of earrings.
    There’s a mannequin too. And on the mannequin is my suit. At his feet is my Underwood briefcase. I never actually carried any papers in that thing. But it felt good to have it at my side. It made me look serious. Almost like a lawyer or something.
    I take the pawn ticket out and look at it. Then I look up at the suit again. If I want it back, all I have to do is fork over four hundred bucks. Then it’s mine again.
    I think once more about how hard Moms worked to buy these things for me. All she ever wanted was to see me succeed. Part of me wants to buy it back just because it was a present from her.
    But what would I do with it? The suit would just hang in my closet. I’d never wear it. The briefcase would just take up space. I don’t need these things anymore. And if I hang on to that four hundred bucks, I’m that much closer to affording my own place again.
    I remember what Yolanda said to me once. I told her the world judged a man based on his appearance. She said that what you have inside is more important. I can see more than ever how right she was. I’m wearing clothes I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a month ago. But I feel better than I’ve ever felt before. That feeling is something money can’t buy. It’s called self-respect.
    I’ve been trying not to think about Yolanda. Ever since the night I stood her up, I’ve pushed her to the back of my mind. I haven’t even