“My mom used to say when grown-ups cry on the outside,” the boy said slowly, “it’s ’cause they’re hurting inside. The kind doctors can’t help.”
The words lodged in Andrew’s chest—not because they were fancy, but because they were painfully true.
He lowered his hands.
A boy stood there—seven, maybe eight. Dark skin, uneven haircut like someone had done it quickly with dull scissors. His eyes were steady in a way that didn’t belong to children. The kind of steady you earn by growing up too fast.
His long-sleeved shirt was torn at the elbows, fabric worn thin from too many washes that never quite cleaned it. His pants were too big, cinched at the waist with knotted rope. No shoes. Bare feet planted on wet pavement, blackened by city grime.
A homeless child.
Someone who should have been asleep under a blanket—but instead stood under a streetlight offering wisdom to a man in a thousand-dollar suit.
Andrew wiped his face with his sleeve. “Your mom was right,” he said quietly. “I’m hurting inside.”
The boy tilted his head, studying him. “You got nice clothes,” he said, “but you sittin’ on the ground like you got nowhere to go. So maybe money didn’t make you happy.”