Up close, Robert saw everything—the bruised feet, the ripped jeans, the shirt that had once been white. But he also saw something else.
The shape of the face.
The crooked nose.
The small scar above the right eyebrow.
He saw Michael.
“What’s your name?” Robert asked, surprised by the gentleness in his own voice.
“Daniel,” the boy replied.
“Daniel Mitchell.”
“Mitchell…” Robert repeated. The name tasted like fear and hope at the same time.
“Where is your father now?”
Daniel looked down at the marble floor. His shoulders shook.
“He passed away three months ago, sir.”
The world collapsed.
“How?” Robert asked through a knot in his throat.
“Lung cancer. He worked construction his whole life. Dust. Chemicals. No insurance. By the time he saw a doctor, it was too late.”
Construction.
The word hit like a bullet.
Michael had worked in the same industry.
Possibly even on Robert’s own job sites.
And Robert had never known.
“Sit down,” Robert said, pulling out the chair beside him.
“And someone bring food. Everything.”
Daniel whispered that enchiladas were fine.
“No,” Robert said. “Bring everything.”
As Daniel ate hesitantly, Robert listened.