Seventeen-year-old Caleb Donovan, heir to one of Chicago’s largest commercial real-estate empires, was accustomed to people stepping out of his way when he crossed the lobby of the Donovan Grand Tower. Power—and the illusion of control—had always followed him.
But that cold November afternoon on Michigan Avenue, Caleb stopped dead in his tracks.
A boy sat huddled against a traffic sign, clutching a cardboard sign with numb fingers. His clothes were filthy and layered for warmth, his hair long and tangled…
But the face.
The face was Caleb’s own.
The same angular jaw.
The same crooked nose.
The same storm-green eyes that widened when Caleb froze in front of him.
For several seconds, neither moved. The city around them churned—buses groaning, people shouting, car horns blaring—but all of it felt distant.
The boy blinked first.
“You… you look like me,” he rasped.
Caleb swallowed hard. “What’s your name?”
“Noah Brooks,” the boy said. “I’m not trying to mess with you. I’m… just trying to survive out here.”
Caleb’s heartbeat slammed in his chest. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.” Noah’s gaze darted from Caleb’s designer coat back to his face. “Been on my own close to a year.”
Brooks.
