While his assistant went inside to collect their order, Adrian scrolled through emails, barely noticing the world around him.
Then someone tugged at his coat.
He looked down.
A little girl stood there, no older than eight. Barefoot on the freezing sidewalk. Her dress had once been pink; now it was torn and stained. Soot marked her hands and cheeks. In her hands, she held a crust of bread, hard and spotted with mold, as if it were treasure.
Adrian instinctively stepped back, shielding Lucas. “Go away,” he said coldly.
She didn’t move. She looked straight at him, then at Lucas. Something strange happened: Lucas reached toward her.
“Sir,” the girl said softly, “your son has many words trapped inside.”
Adrian’s heart jolted. “What?”
“He wants to speak. But he can’t. Because you don’t listen.”
Anger flared. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Leave before I call security.”
She lifted the moldy bread slightly. “Give me your bread,” she said firmly. “Give me your bread, and I’ll make your son speak.”
Adrian let out a harsh laugh. “You think I’m an idiot? I don’t want tricks.”
“I don’t want your money,” she replied calmly. “I want your bread.”