That was when he appeared.
A boy—barefoot, ragged, his shirt torn and smeared with dirt. His shorts were frayed, his knees scraped. He looked no older than nine or ten. He must have slipped past the gates somehow, wandering into the Carter estate in search of food or rest.
Daniel, watching from the balcony above, stiffened. He was ready to call security when something unexpected happened.
The boy didn’t beg. He didn’t steal. Instead, he began to dance.
It wasn’t the graceful movements of a trained performer. His steps were wild, clumsy, even ridiculous. He spun in uneven circles, leapt into the air with exaggerated effort, and wiggled his arms in awkward patterns. To anyone else, it might have looked like nonsense.
