He was small for his age, shoulders hunched inside a jacket that clearly did not belong to him. One sleeve hung longer than the other. His sneakers were held together by hope and worn laces. A dark bruise spread beneath his right eye, and another shadow marked his jaw.
For a moment, no one spoke.
A man near the pool table cleared his throat. “You lost, kid.”
The boy swallowed and shook his head. “No, sir.”
His voice was quiet but steady, the kind of steadiness learned too young.
“I’m looking for work,” he said. “I can clean. I can carry things. I can learn fast if someone shows me. I just need a chance.”
A few men exchanged looks. One chuckled, not out of cruelty but discomfort, because pain seen too clearly makes people uneasy.
But a man seated near the bar did not laugh.
His name was Walter Grayson, the club’s operations lead, a broad shouldered man with silver threaded through his dark hair and hands marked by years of labor. He had seen enough broken things to recognize another one standing in front of him.
He rose slowly and walked toward the boy.
“What’s your name,” Walter asked.
“Eli Turner,” the boy replied.
Walter nodded. “You from around here.”