That was when he noticed the boy.
He did not come over with a plastic bowl or try to sell sachets of water like the other street children. He was maybe ten years old, wearing oversized dusty sandals and a yellow T-shirt that had been washed so many times it was practically see-through.
He just stood there, looking at Jerry with a level of confidence that felt far too old for his face.
Jerry felt his temper flare. He was used to people cornering him for money or favors.
“Listen, son,” he said, his voice deep and tired. “My security is right there by the SUV. Move along. I’m not doing charity today.”
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