He couldn’t have been older than twelve. His thin body shook under the relentless downpour, his school uniform soaked through as cars rushed past, splashing грязy water across the crowded streets of downtown Chicago.
With one arm, Marisol held her six-month-old son, Mateo, close against her chest. With the other, she slipped off her only jacket—already soaked—and wrapped it around the boy’s shoulders without hesitation.
Her lips were turning blue from the cold.
But she didn’t think twice.
“What’s your name?” she asked softly, guiding him under the narrow awning of a closed shop.
“E-Ethan,” he stammered between uneven breaths.
Marisol crouched as much as she could while balancing the baby on her hip. “Where are your parents, Ethan?”
He looked down, ashamed.
“My dad… he’s always working,” he murmured. “I argued with our driver. I got out of the car. I didn’t know where to go.”
A short distance away, behind the tinted windows of a black Mercedes, Daniel Carter watched in stunned silence.
For nearly half an hour, he had been searching the city after receiving a call from Ethan’s school.
His son had run away.
Again.
But nothing prepared him for what he was seeing now.