For several minutes Ethan didn’t move. Charles felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. The boy would wait. He would make sure the old man was truly asleep.
Then came the faint rustle of movement.
Here it is, Charles thought bitterly.
Small, careful footsteps approached. The boy was close now—so close Charles could sense him beside the chair. The envelope lay inches from Ethan’s hand.
Charles braced for the quick snatch.
Instead, he heard a soft sound.
Zzzzip.
A zipper.
Confusion flickered through Charles’s mind. What is he doing?
He felt fabric shift.
Then something warm settled gently over his legs.
It was a jacket—thin, slightly damp from rain but still holding a child’s body heat. Ethan was covering him.
Charles’s thoughts stalled.
“Your hands are cold, sir,” Ethan whispered softly. “My mom says old people get sick easy.”
The words pierced through years of cynicism.
“Don’t die,” the boy added quietly. “Please don’t die like my dad.”
That single word—dad—hit Charles like a blow. This child wasn’t thinking about money. He was thinking about loss.
Charles waited, stunned.
He heard the envelope slide slightly across the table. For one sharp moment, he thought the boy had changed his mind.