Leo shut off the computer and stood up.
The hunger was still there, but it had already been suppressed by something stronger.
A clear sense of purpose.
He walked out of the apartment building and headed toward the community center that was about to be auctioned off.
The scene on the streets was exactly the same as when he had walked through them earlier, filled with decay and desolation.
But now, in his eyes, these were no longer unchangeable realities, but positions that needed to be conquered.
He stood at the entrance of the Steelworkers Community Center.
It was a three-story red-brick building, rough in style and without any superfluous decoration, just like the steelworkers who had built it.
On the front wall of the building, the metal emblem of the Steelworkers Union from those years could still be seen. Though it was already covered in rust, the arm gripping a hammer still brimmed with strength.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door and walked in.
Many black-and-white photographs hung on the walls of the hall.
The photographs showed Pittsburgh’s steel industry in its golden age: workers laboring before blast furnaces, union-organized marches, and community residents holding picnic parties together.
These photographs were telling a history that had already been forgotten.
The hall was very quiet. There was only the sound of children’s laughter coming from one room, and the intermittent tapping of a keyboard from another.
An old woman with graying hair was sitting behind the front desk, sorting through a pile of documents.
She wore a pair of reading glasses and a washed-out sweater, her expression focused.
Seeing Leo come in, she lifted her head and sized him up with a scrutinizing gaze.
“What can I do for you, young man?”
“My name is Leo Wallace,” Leo said. “I saw the notice on the city government website about this place being auctioned.”
The old woman’s eyes immediately became wary.
“Are you a reporter?”
“No.”
“Sent by the city government?”
“No.”
“Then who are you? A real estate speculator looking to pick up a bargain here?” Her tone sharpened.
“None of those,” Leo said. “I live in this community. I just wanted to come and learn about the situation, see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
The old woman narrowed her eyes and continued to study him, as if judging whether his words were true.
“My name is Margaret Davis,” she said. “I’m in charge of this center. There’s nothing here that needs help, unless you can conjure up fifty thousand dollars in property taxes within a week.”
After saying that, she lowered her head and went back to her documents, clearly having no intention of saying another word to Leo.
“Don’t rush to say what you can do,” Roosevelt’s voice rang out. “Remember what I told you. Listen first. Listen to their stories. Feel their anger and helplessness.”
Leo did not leave.
He sat down on a worn-out sofa in the hall.
Margaret ignored him.
After a while, several elderly people about Margaret’s age came out of an activity room inside.
They were holding sweaters they had knitted themselves and handicrafts they had made. Clearly, an elderly activity group had just ended.
Seeing Leo’s unfamiliar face, they all cast curious looks his way.
One tall old man walked up to Leo.
“Whose kid are you?” he asked. His hands were covered in calluses and scars, permanent marks left behind by the steel mill.
“My name is Leo Wallace.” Leo stood up. “My father used to work at the Homestead mill.”
Upon hearing “Homestead mill,” the expressions of the elderly immediately became warm.
The tall old man said, “My name’s George. What are you doing here?”
“I saw the auction notice,” Leo repeated.
George sighed, and the wrinkles on his face deepened.
“Yes. They want to take even this last little bit of place from us.”
“They?”
“The mayor and his rich friends,” another old man cut in. “They’ve had their eyes on this piece of land for a long time. They think it’s an eyesore for poor folks like us to stay here.”
And so, Leo began chatting with these elderly people.
He spent the entire afternoon sitting on that sofa, listening.
He listened as George described how, after he lost his job, this community center had provided him with free computer training, teaching him how to go online so that he could video chat with his grandson in another state.
He listened as an old woman named Rosa described how, after her husband passed away, it was the day-care services here that freed her from loneliness and helped her find new friends.
He listened as a retired electrician named Mike described how he came here every week to repair appliances for the elderly in the community for free, because this place made him feel that he was still a useful person.
Every one of them regarded this place as their home.
They spoke of what this center meant to them, of their worries for the future, and of their anger toward the city government and that real estate company.
Leo did not interrupt. He offered no suggestions. He simply listened carefully, committing every story and every detail they spoke of to memory.
Night fell.
The lights in the community center hall came on.
More and more residents hurried over from all directions.
Most of them were elderly people like George and Rosa, the forgotten half of this city.
Tonight, a mobilization meeting before the protest was to be held here.
Margaret Davis stood in the center of the hall, using a megaphone to explain the situation to the dozens of residents who had gathered.
Her voice was not loud, but it was filled with strength and determination.
She told everyone that they had already contacted the local television station and were preparing to hold a peaceful demonstration in front of City Hall next week before the auction began.
She encouraged everyone not to give up, to fight for their home until the very last moment.
The atmosphere of the mobilization meeting was somewhat heavy. Although everyone was angry, what filled the room even more was a sense of powerlessness.
They all knew that, against the city government and a powerful real estate company, their little bit of strength was no different from a mantis trying to stop a chariot.
At the end of the meeting, Margaret saw Leo still sitting in the corner.
She hesitated for a moment, then raised the megaphone and said to Leo,
“Young man over there, you’ve been listening here all afternoon. Is there anything you’d like to say to everyone?”
Everyone’s eyes focused on Leo.
Leo felt his heart begin to pound wildly.
This was his first time giving a speech to a real crowd, not sitting behind a screen and striking a keyboard.
He stood up, feeling his legs go a little weak.
“Relax, kid,” Roosevelt’s voice sounded in his mind. “You don’t need to become an orator. You only need to become their voice.”
“Tell the stories you heard this afternoon in your own words. Then use your knowledge to tell them that this fight is not hopeless.”
Leo took a deep breath and walked to the center of the hall.
He did not take the megaphone.
He cleared his throat, and then began his first speech.
“Good evening, everyone. My name is Leo Wallace.”
“This afternoon, here in this place, I heard Mr. George’s story, I heard Ms. Rosa’s story, and I also heard Mr. Mike’s story.”
He retold the stories he had heard in the plainest language.
He spoke of computer training, of day-care services, of free appliance repairs.
The residents in the hall listened quietly. The looks in their eyes slowly changed from initial curiosity to recognition and resonance.
Because what Leo was talking about was their own lives.
“These stories tell me one thing,” Leo continued. “This place is a home. It is a home that the people of our community built for themselves after the steel mills shut down.”
“But now, someone wants to tear down our home. They say it’s because we owe taxes.”
His tone shifted, becoming sharp.
“As a student of history and law, I also looked up the relevant city regulations this afternoon. Our community center, as a nonprofit organization, is fully eligible to apply for a reduction or exemption of property taxes. So why has Ms. Margaret’s application been rejected again and again by the mayor’s office?”
“I also found out that Pinnacle Development Group, the company preparing to buy this land, is Mayor Cartwright’s biggest campaign donor. Why is there only one bidder in this auction? Does that conform to the procedural justice of a public auction?”
The questions he raised stunned everyone present.
They had only known anger. They had never considered that there might be illegal operations behind all of this.
Leo’s voice, at this moment, rose higher.
Roosevelt’s voice, in his mind, provided him with the most powerful concluding line.
“What they want to knock down is not just an old building!”
“What they want to knock down is the memory accumulated by generations of this community, the mutual aid we built in difficult times, and the last dignity we possess as workers!”
“They want to use cold steel and concrete to completely bury the history of us Pittsburgh steelworkers!”
The speech ended.
The entire hall was silent for several seconds.
Then applause erupted like a tide.
It was not polite applause, but heartfelt, fervent applause, applause filled with hope.
The old woman, Margaret Davis, walked through the crowd and came up to Leo.
She looked into Leo’s eyes. The suspicion and wariness from before had already turned into trust and expectation.
She gripped Leo’s hand tightly.
“Child, we’re all just old bones. All we know how to do is shout slogans. We don’t know how to deal with those people in suits.”
“We need a leader who understands the law and knows how to speak. Are you willing to help us?”
Without waiting for Leo to answer, she took an envelope from her pocket and pressed it into Leo’s hand.
“We all pooled together some money. It isn’t much, but it’s everything we could take out. We want to formally hire you as the legal adviser for this protest.”
“This is your first payment.”
Leo lowered his head and saw that inside the somewhat worn envelope were dozens of scattered one-dollar, five-dollar, and ten-dollar bills.