Roots in the Concrete – Part 1 and Part 2

Part 1

Dondra Bevins pressed her thumb against the elevator button in the old Davenville Municipal Building, the metal scratched and dulled from decades of fingers. The thing groaned when it opened, just like always. As she stepped inside, she adjusted the straps of her tan faux-leather tote bag, crammed with pamphlets, folders, and a tattered notebook she refused to let go of. It held every dream, every plan, every late-night brainstorm for the business she was building from scratch.

HopeLink Neighborhood Network, her future—no, their future.

The elevator stalled at the third floor before lurching upward, as stubborn and determined as Dondra herself.

She was 35, single, childless, and according to her mama, wasting time on a dream too big for “a woman all by herself.” Dondra didn’t argue anymore. She just worked. Even when her own family didn’t believe in her vision—helping young adults aging out of the foster care system find solid ground—Dondra carried on. For kids like Shari, who slept in her car after turning eighteen. For Devon, who had aged out without a diploma and didn’t know how to fill out a job application. For the quiet ones, the angry ones, the overlooked.

The elevator doors creaked open on the sixth floor. Dondra stepped out, her dark green pumps clicking against the faded linoleum. She straightened her posture, brushed invisible lint from her pencil skirt, and walked with the confidence she didn’t always feel.

Today’s meeting was with Councilwoman Lila Merriweather—one of the few city officials willing to even hear her out. She rehearsed her pitch on the way in, lips moving silently:
“A public-private partnership to subsidize first-time rentals for youth exiting foster care. We secure half the rent through donations from local businesses, with your office helping open doors…”

The hallway smelled like old paper and lemony disinfectant. She knocked lightly on the councilwoman’s office door and pushed it open at the sound of “Come in!”

Councilwoman Merriweather sat behind a cluttered desk, eyes alert and sharp behind gold-rimmed glasses. Her salt-and-pepper afro was neatly shaped, and her lipstick matched her cranberry blazer perfectly.

“Dondra,” she said with a kind nod. “I read the grant proposal. You’ve got something here.”

Dondra exhaled a little. “Thank you for saying that. It’s a rough draft, but the numbers are solid. The need is real. I just need someone to help me make this real—someone with influence.”

“You’re asking for political backing and access to business donors. That’s no small favor,” Merriweather said, folding her hands. “But I believe in what you’re trying to do.”

A beat passed. Dondra leaned forward slightly. “I can get the kids. I know where they are—shelters, community centers, even couch-surfing with old friends. I can get them into workshops, help them register for school, line up interviews. What I need is a network. What I need… is a city that gives a damn.”

Merriweather studied her for a long moment, then smiled.

“I’ll make some calls.”

Dondra blinked. Just like that?

“You’ve got fire, Ms. Bevins. The city could use more of it. And I know someone at Davenville Motors who’s been itching to write off some goodwill donations.”

Dondra’s throat tightened. “Thank you, Councilwoman. I won’t waste this.”

As she walked out, a glimmer of hope warmed her chest. For the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like she was doing this.

Part 2 Cracks in the Foundation

Dondra stepped into the cool spring air outside the municipal building, blinking against the sunlight slicing through Davenville’s downtown corridor. The street buzzed with the usual midday motion—delivery trucks grumbling over potholes, people hurrying past corner vendors selling spicy beef patties and sweet tea in plastic cups. She paused near a rusted bus stop bench and checked her phone. A single text.

Kita Bevins: U still coming Sunday or nah? Mama said don’t come if u just gon talk about that “charity” again.

Dondra didn’t respond right away. Her thumb hovered over the screen, then locked the phone.

Her family didn’t get it. To them, she’d had her chance at “real” success. She could’ve stayed at the insurance firm. Married Reggie—the accountant with the thick glasses and thinner patience. Had two kids and a mortgage by now. Instead, she cashed out her 401(k), walked away from security, and dove headfirst into what they saw as a pipe dream.

But Dondra wasn’t chasing dreams. She was chasing justice. Stability. A future for people the world pretended not to see.

She exhaled and walked two blocks to her office—if you could call it that. A converted laundromat with mismatched furniture, secondhand desktops, and a front desk made from repurposed pallets. The walls still smelled faintly of detergent and mildew. But to Dondra, it was a seed. HopeLink wasn’t much now, but it was growing.

Inside, her intern, 21-year-old Krysta, looked up from a cracked laptop at the front desk. Her green curls were piled in a bun, and she had a look on her face like she was waiting to be annoyed.

“You’re late,” Krysta said, not looking up from her screen.

“You’re early,” Dondra replied with a half-smile. “What’s up?”

Krysta sighed. “Marcus is here. He showed up again. Said he ain’t have nowhere else to go.”

Dondra’s chest tightened. She glanced toward the small conference room. Through the cracked door, she saw Marcus—nineteen, all limbs and hollow eyes—sitting with his back against the wall, backpack at his feet like a deflated balloon.

“He didn’t cause a scene, did he?” she asked.

“No,” Krysta muttered. “Just hungry. Said he slept behind the train station last night. I gave him a muffin from the break room.”

Dondra nodded and walked toward the conference room.

“Hey, Marcus,” she said gently, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked up, his face softening with something close to relief. “I didn’t know where else to go, Ms. Dondra. They kicked me outta that group home. Said I missed curfew too many times.”

She nodded slowly. “I’m glad you came here. You did the right thing.”

He blinked fast, fighting something behind his eyes. “I don’t wanna go back to the street.”

“You won’t,” she said. “We’ll figure it out.”

Later, she’d call a friend at the Harmony Shelter. Maybe they’d bend the intake rules for a night or two. She’d tap Councilwoman Merriweather about that city voucher pilot she hinted at. If she had to, she’d dip into the emergency fund—but she only had $312 left. Not enough to save everyone. But maybe enough to save him.

Back in her office, she stared at her vision board. It was a collage of handwritten sticky notes, cut-out magazine quotes, and faded photos of real kids she’d helped already. “Affordable housing,” “donor dinner,” “citywide job fair,” “tuition sponsorship pilot”—some ideas circled, others crossed out. Dreams on paper. A war plan, really.

She didn’t have a husband. Didn’t have a child. But she had this purpose. It lived in her bones now. Dondra Bevins had made a promise to the abandoned, and she wasn’t backing down.

Her phone vibrated again. A new message.

Lila Merriweather: Meeting set w/ Davenville Motors Friday @ 10. Bring your numbers.

A small smile crept across Dondra’s face.

“Let’s get to work,” she whispered to herself, rolling up her sleeves.