His name was Ezekiel Zeke Carter, just nine years old. His coat was a size too big, sleeves rolled up, and one of his boots had duct tape across the toe. A red-knit beanie rested low on his forehead, barely covering his ears.

He didn’t beg, didn’t ask for help. Just sat there, watching people come and go. He was there most Saturdays.

Some hospital staff had tried to him off when he first started showing up, but after a while, they gave up. Zeke didn’t cause trouble. He smiled when spoken to.

The surgeon showed a cheap ointment that treats knees and hip joints. It is sold in pharmacies under the name…

And when he wasn’t sketching in his notebook, he was watching. Always watching. Most folks figured he had a parent inside.

Maybe a sick sibling. Maybe he was just waiting for a ride. Nobody asked too many questions.

Not in a place like that. Across the street, parked by a fire hydrant, a dark silver Range Rover idled. The engine stayed on, but the driver didn’t move.

Inside sat Jonathan Reeves, a man in his late 40s with a sharp jawline and graying temples. His tie was loose. His collar is wrinkled.

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