Alexander Whitmore stopped walking. His bodyguard moved forward, but Alexander lifted one hand. The boy could not have been more than eight. His shoes were held together with string. His fingers were thin. His face had the hollow look of a child who knew how to make one piece of bread last longer than hunger wanted it to. But his voice was steady. Kinder than most adults Alexander paid to teach his daughter. Lily looked up and saw her father. Her smile vanished.
A Lesson in Numbers and Loss
“Daddy,” she whispered, quickly standing. “Please don’t send him away.” Benjamin immediately lowered his chalk. “I didn’t steal anything, sir,” he said. The words came too fast. Too practiced. Like life had taught him to defend himself before anyone accused him. Alexander felt something tighten inside his chest. “Who are you?” he asked. The boy glanced at Lily, then at the ground. “Benjamin.”
