A small silver pendant slipped from the boy’s fingers and hit the cracked sidewalk with a sharp metallic sound. Andrew felt that sound in his chest.
The boy couldn’t have been older than eight. His name was Noah Bennett. His thin fingers clutched a wrinkled sheet of paper covered in bright crayon drawings.
“Mister,” Noah said again, swallowing hard, “it’s really cheap. You can have it.”
Behind him stood a fragile shack made of uneven wooden planks and rusted tin, swaying slightly in the wind that swept through the neglected neighborhood of Maple Ridge Heights.
Andrew had come there that morning to evaluate nearby land for a development project. He hadn’t planned on stopping for anything else.
He took the paper from Noah’s shaking hands.
It wasn’t a contract. It was a drawing.
A crooked little house. Two stick figures holding hands. A bright yellow sun in the corner. And in uneven letters:
“Sale of my house.”
Andrew felt something twist inside him. “Why are you selling this, Noah?”
The boy turned and pointed toward the dark doorway of the shack. His lower lip trembled.
“My mom’s sick. If I get money, she won’t die.”
From inside came a faint, painful cough.