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Then one rainy Thursday in Chicago, I ducked into a coffee shop to escape the downpour, distracted by thoughts of a client meeting—and collided with a man at the counter. When I looked up, my apology died in my throat. It was Adam. He looked haggard, his eyes darting with the frantic energy of someone running from more than just the rain. For a moment, I thought he might offer a decade-overdue apology. Instead, he said, “I need your help.”
The audacity was staggering. He didn’t ask about his children—children he hadn’t seen in twelve years. He didn’t ask how I had survived. He wanted five thousand dollars to settle a debt. When I refused, his desperation turned sharp and threatening. He claimed “fate” had brought us together and hinted that if I didn’t pay, he would make me regret it.
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