Until he felt a tug on his coat.
He looked down.
It wasn’t Ethan.
It was a little girl — maybe eight years old. Barefoot on freezing pavement. Wearing what had once been a pink dress, now faded and torn. Her hands were smudged with dirt.
In her fingers, she held a stale, mold-edged crust of bread as if it were treasure.
Daniel instinctively stepped back, shielding Ethan.
“Move along,” he said coldly.
The girl didn’t move.
She looked at him. Then at Ethan.
And Ethan — who usually recoiled from strangers — reached toward her.
“Sir,” the girl said softly, her voice like wind through dry leaves, “your son has words trapped inside him.”
Daniel froze.
“What did you say?”
“He wants to talk,” she said. “But he can’t. Because you don’t listen.”
Anger flared.
“Get away before I call security. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She stepped closer, lifting her moldy crust like an offering.
“Give me your bread,” she said steadily. “Give me your bread, and I’ll make him speak.”
Daniel laughed — sharp, dismissive.
“Are you insane? You think I’m stupid?”
“I don’t want your money,” she replied. “I want your bread.”