In a corner of the hallway outside the emergency room, unseen behind the frosted glass, stood a fourteen-year-old boy named Jermaine Carterson. He was tall for his age, skinny in a way that hunger explains better than biology. His skin was the color of polished coffee beans, and his eyes held the tired wisdom of someone who had learned caution before learning multiplication. His gray hoodie had holes near the cuffs. His sneakers were patched with duct tape, silver lines like scars across faded fabric.
Jermaine’s mother, Tiana Carterson, worked as a housekeeper for the Sutcliffe family. They lived in a small staff unit behind the garage, where the air always smelled like gasoline and old money. Tiana had raised Jermaine with a simple prayer.
“Keep your head down,” she always said. “Be useful. Be invisible. Being noticed is dangerous for us here.”
Jermaine listened. He learned to drift like steam in corridors, never leaving footprints of presence.
Now he stood frozen, looking through the glass, his heartbeat stuttering with fear.