Joe leans back in his chair, staring out the window like he’s trying to map the whole world in his head.
“Mr. Wagner used to tell me something,” he says slowly. “He said family isn’t just who you’re born to—it’s who you choose to stand beside. I didn’t get it back then. Just thought it was math class wisdom wrapped in sentiment.”
He pauses, then smirks faintly.
“But I get it now.”
Joe taps the table, counting on his fingers.
“One kid from Afghanistan. One from Bosnia and Herzegovina. And one from Rwanda.”
He looks up.
“Three places the world watched burn in different ways. Three places where kids didn’t choose the chaos they were born into.”
Bkenyan snorts from across the room.
“Man, listen—if Sacha Baron Cohen—Bruno himself—can adopt a Black child, what’s stopping you? You over here philosophizing like it’s a UN summit.”
Joe chuckles, but there’s an edge to it.
“Yeah, well… some people talk. Some people sign papers. Some people watch.”
He leans forward, voice tightening slightly.
“Look at Roméo Dallaire. Front row seat to Rwandan genocide, tied up in red tape and politics. Orders, pressure, ‘don’t intervene.’ History’s full of moments where doing nothing becomes the loudest action of all.”
A beat.
“I’m not running a military mission. I’m not waiting for permission. I’m just talking about giving three kids a shot at something better.”
Bkenyan raises an eyebrow.
“So this is your revolution? Diapers, school lunches, PTA meetings?”
Joe smiles, but this time it’s steady.
“Yeah. Maybe that’s the real one.”
He shrugs.
“No speeches. No headlines. Just… doing what Mr. Wagner was trying to teach me all along.”
