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?”
“Everyone. They look sad.”
“We are not equipped to help today. I need to get you home.”
The words tasted wrong even as he spoke them. They were automatic, reflexive, something he had learned to say in boardrooms and charity galas where donations were given like breadcrumbs to starving pigeons. He knew it, and yet he said it anyway.
The car rolled forward. Then Milo gasped.
“Papa. Stop. Please stop. Look over there.”
There was urgency in his tone that made Augustine raise his eyes. On the side of the road, next to a dumpster overflowing with plastic bags and rotting food, lay a stained mattress. On that mattress, curled around one another like fragile creatures hiding from a storm, were two children.
Augustine blinked hard. “Those are just sleeping. Some families. They are probably waiting for someone.”
Milo shook his head. “No. They are like me.”
The SUV pulled over. Augustine stepped out, straightening his expensive coat instinctively. He reached for Milo’s hand. The smell hit him first. Smoke. Sewage. Something metallic. Life stripped down to survival.