Edward Whitmore startled awake when something small and warm bumped into his wheelchair. A little girl, about seven years old, with messy brown hair and a dirt-stained pink T-shirt, stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. In her hand, she clutched a piece of bread.
“What on earth—” Edward muttered as his two security guards stepped forward.
“Please,” the girl begged, hiding behind his chair. “Tell him I’m your granddaughter. That man is going to hit me.”
A hot dog vendor was hurrying toward them, waving his arms angrily.
Edward felt a sharp ache in his chest — not from the pancreatic cancer that was slowly killing him, but from something deeper.
“Let her go,” he ordered calmly. “How much for the bread?”
Three hours earlier, in a private office at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital, Edward had received his final diagnosis: stage four pancreatic cancer. Three to six months to live.
Now, sitting in Central Park, watching the autumn leaves fall, he wondered what dignity really meant. He was 78 years old, worth over $200 million in real estate, and had no one who would truly mourn him.
The girl peeked out from behind his chair.
“He’s gone,” she said softly.