The old man studies me for a long moment. Then, he pats my shoulder. "You want him back?"
I let out a broken laugh. "What kind of question is that? Of course, I do."
"Then get up."
I blink. "What?"
He gestures at me. "Get up. You won’t get him back by sitting here feeling sorry for yourself."
Anger flares in my chest. "You don’t understand—"
"I understand perfectly," he interrupts, his eyes sharp. "You lost. You’re broken. But you aren’t dead. And as long as you’re breathing, you fight."
Something about his voice—his presence—makes me pause. He’s not just some homeless old man, is he?
Before I can ask, he stands up.
"Come with me."
And for some reason, I do.
***
His house is massive. No. Not a house. A mansion.
I stare in shock as he pushes open the grand doors, revealing a space so luxurious it looks like it belongs in a movie.
I turn to him, baffled. "What the hell—?"
He smirks. "I never said I was actually homeless."
I gape at him.
"Richard Blackwood," he says, extending a hand. "The richest man in America."
My mouth drops open. I know that name. Everyone does.
"But—but—"