I nearly dialed 911 on the tattooed teenager holding a screaming baby inside an empty 1 AM laundromat. Then his bag tore open, and my stomach sank with utter shame.

His name was Jackson. He was nineteen. And over the next hour, as I helped him load his work clothes into the washing machines, his entire tragic reality poured out.

Jackson worked the evening shift at a local shipping warehouse loading boxes. He got off at midnight.

At 8:00 AM every morning, he attended classes at the local community college. He was continue reading …