The old man smelled of dust and many days without proper food. He stood at the iron gates of the Grand Orison Hotel in Dubai, holding a small cardboard sign. Hundreds of guests swept past him in silk gowns and polished shoes, carrying the scent of expensive perfume and the sound of laughter. Not one of them slowed down. Not one of them looked at his face.
The security guards watched from a distance with the patience of men paid to make problems disappear quietly.
His name was Dio. He was sixty-three years old, with white hair at his temples and deep lines across his forehead. His shirt was torn at the shoulder. His shoes had no soles left, and the pavement burned beneath his feet. He had not eaten since the morning before.
He sat down slowly against the cold stone wall beside the iron gate and closed his eyes. His stomach made low, hollow sounds. He folded the cardboard sign and pressed it flat against his chest.
