And at that exact moment, a skinny, dirty ten-year-old boy forced his way into the private wing.
His name was Leo.
He smelled like the street. His sneakers were torn. A large trash bag full of bottles hung over his shoulder. Security tried to stop him. A nurse told him to leave.
But Leo had seen something.
Something tiny.
Something no one else had noticed.
Earlier that morning, Leo had been collecting recyclables near the financial district. He lived in a run-down shack near the train tracks with his grandfather, Henry, who always told him:
