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.”
The boy did not even blink. He did not look at the guards by the black G-Wagon. He took a step closer, and when he spoke, his voice was eerily calm, cutting right through the noise of the park.
“Your daughter isn’t sick, Oga,” the boy said. His English was clear and deliberate. “And she isn’t going blind.”
Jerry froze.
The annoyance in his chest turned into a cold spike of confusion.
“What did you just say?”
