Andrew almost smiled. Almost. “I’m not rich anymore.”
The boy blinked. “Not rich?”
“I lost everything today,” Andrew said. The words felt heavy as they fell. “My company. My money. My family. Tomorrow I’m turning myself in. I’m going to prison.”
The boy thought about that carefully. Then he asked, “You still got your arms?”
“What?”
“Your arms,” the boy repeated, lifting his own. “You still got ’em?”
“Yes.”
“You got legs?”
“Yes.”
“You can see? Hear?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you didn’t lose everything,” the boy said simply. “You lost some things.”
Andrew swallowed hard. “It doesn’t feel like some.”
The boy’s expression dimmed briefly. “I lost my mom six months ago,” he said. “That’s losing the biggest thing.”
Andrew had nothing prepared for that. No polished response. Just honesty.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
The boy shrugged, pretending it didn’t matter. “She got sick. No insurance. Then she was gone.”
Andrew looked at him—really looked at him—and felt something break open inside.
“What’s your name?” Andrew asked.
“Caleb,” the boy replied. “Yours?”
“Andrew.”
Caleb extended his hand.