Heavy clouds smothered the sky above Eastbridge City as luxury sedans and yellow taxis crawled through the late afternoon traffic. Most Fridays, Augustine Harrow would have already been home in his mansion overlooking Harbor Bay. He preferred the coastal roads lined with glass storefronts and manicured parks. Today, however, an overturned tanker on the freeway had forced him into the backstreets. These streets were the kind he had spent years pretending did not exist.
His five-year-old son Milo sat in the back seat of the black SUV, swinging his legs as he recounted the spelling test he had aced at Westlake Preparatory Academy. Augustine listened with half an ear, answering with the usual encouraging sounds while checking stock reports on his phone.
The SUV came to a stop near an intersection where a traffic light blinked red. Vendors crowded the sidewalks, selling fruit from rusted carts. A pair of teenagers passed by, pushing a shopping cart filled with scrap metal. Graffiti sprawled across every surface like the city itself was crying out.
Milo pressed his face against the window. “Papa, can we help them?” he asked in a soft voice.
Augustine did not look up. “Who, darling?”