I had been hired to conduct an annual financial review for a nursing residence on the outskirts of Brookdale Heights. It was supposed to be another routine assignment. I walked through the facility with a clipboard in one hand and a stack of reports in the other, barely paying attention to the residents scattered throughout the common areas.
Then I noticed an elderly man sitting alone beneath a dirty window.
A plastic cup had fallen from his wheelchair and rolled across the floor. He was stretching desperately to reach it, his frail fingers trembling.
I bent down, picked up the cup, and handed it to him.
The moment our eyes met, my heart stopped.
“Mr. Richard?”
The old man’s expression froze.
Richard Bennett.
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