Chapter 2 - The Three-Day Pilgrimage
The journey across Chicago in the middle of January was an ordeal that nearly broke him.
By the morning of the second day, Leo’s body felt like it was made of glass. Every step he took on the icy sidewalks sent a shudder of pain up his ankles into his knees. He hadn't eaten a single bite in over forty-eight hours. His tongue felt thick and dry, and his lips were cracked and bleeding from the freezing wind blowing off Lake Michigan.
He had slept the previous night squeezed into a heated lobby of a subway station until a transit guard kicked him out at 3:00 AM. Since then, he had kept moving to keep from freezing to death.
Multiple times, temptation almost conquered him.
At noon on the second day, he stood outside a greasy-spoon diner on 47th Street. The smell of fried chicken and buttery toast was so overwhelming that he dizzyingly leaned against the window, his forehead touching the cold glass. He reached into his pocket, his hand wrapping around the thick, heavy leather of Arthur Vance’s wallet.
Just one bill, he told himself, tears welling up in his eyes and freezing instantly on his cheeks. Just pull out one twenty. Or even a hundred. There are dozens of them! He’ll never know. He’s a rich man! He won't care about twenty dollars!
He unzipped the wallet. He pulled the hundred-dollar bill halfway out of the slot.
He walked up to the glass door of the diner, his hand on the brass handle. But as he pushed, his left wrist caught on the doorframe. His sleeve pulled back, exposing the silver-and-jade bracelet.
At that exact second, his heart gave a powerful, rhythmic thump against his ribcage. A strange wave of calm washed over his dizzy head, replacing the panic of starvation with a sudden, overwhelming image of the little girl in the yellow raincoat, smiling through her gap-toothed grin.
Leo froze. He looked down at his wrist, then at the wallet in his hand.
"No," he whispered aloud, his voice raspy and barely audible over the roaring traffic. "Not a single cent."
He shoved the money back in, zipped the wallet shut, and backed away from the warm, greasy restaurant, stepping back into the brutal wind.
By the third day, Leo was hallucinating from exhaustion and cold. The towering skyscrapers of downtown Chicago rose before him like giant grey monoliths against a colorless sky. He couldn't feel his feet at all; he was simply shuffling his legs forward by sheer force of will.
People in expensive wool coats and designer scarves stepped around him on Michigan Avenue, giving the ragged, shivering boy wide berths. To them, he was just another invisible street kid, a smudge on the shiny glass of the luxury shopping district.
At 2:15 PM on the third day, Leo finally stood at the foot of 100 Lakeshore Tower.
It was a staggering building of black steel and mirrored glass that seemed to reach straight into the low-hanging clouds. Massive revolving glass doors spun silently, letting in wealthy executives and high-powered lawyers.
Leo approached the entrance, his body trembling violently. He pushed through the revolving door, gasping as the sudden blast of building heat hit his frozen skin.
The lobby was palatial—polished white marble floors, soaring ceilings, and a massive granite reception desk right in the center.
Leo hobbled across the shiny marble, his dirty, wet sneakers leaving gray, muddy tracks on the spotless floor.
"Hey! Kid! Stop right there!"
A large security guard in a crisp navy uniform stepped out from behind the desk, his hand resting on his belt, his brow furrowed in deep annoyance. "Where do you think you're going? You can't be in here. Out. Back to the street."
Leo stopped, swaying on his feet. The sudden heat of the building made his head swim; black spots danced across his vision. He gripped the edge of the high granite desk to keep from collapsing.
"I... I need to see..." Leo’s voice was a cracked whisper. He swallowed hard, trying to summon enough moisture to speak. "I need to see Mr. Vance. Arthur Vance."
The guard let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "Mr. Vance? The CEO? Kid, Mr. Vance doesn't see people like you. He doesn't see anyone without an appointment made six months in advance. Out you go, before I call the police."
The guard reached out to grab Leo’s shoulder to escort him to the street.
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Leo didn't move away. Instead, with agonizing slowness, he reached inside his filthy hoodie pocket, pulled out the mahogany leather wallet, and laid it flat on the high marble counter.
"Please," Leo breathed, looking up into the guard's eyes with desperate, hollow sockets. "Tell him... tell him I have his wallet. I have Maya's picture."
