The next day crawled by painfully.
Ethan arrived just after noon.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted. “But I’m going.”
At 1:45 p.m., I stood outside the store with a bag that looked full of money.
At exactly 2 p.m., the homeless man appeared—still wearing the red sweater.
His eyes immediately went to the bag.
“You bring the money?”
I opened it just enough for him to see folded stacks of paper.
It wasn’t cash, but it looked convincing.
He nodded.
“Good. Let’s go.”
We walked through several streets, then into quieter areas. Eventually the buildings gave way to brick walls and narrow alleys.
Finally we reached a bridge over the highway.
Beneath it stood tents, shopping carts, and makeshift shelters. Several homeless people gathered around a fire burning inside a rusty metal drum.
The man slowed.
“Before we go any farther,” he said, “I want my payment.”
I tightened my grip on the bag.
“I haven’t seen my daughter.”
He frowned.
“We’re almost there.”
“Then you’ll get paid when I see her.”
His expression hardened.
“That wasn’t the deal!”
“I need proof.”
Suddenly he lunged, grabbing for the bag.
“Give it here!”
Before I could react, a large arm shoved between us.
Ethan.
He pushed the man back hard.
