The city streets are often a blur of motion, a fast-paced reel of people rushing blindly toward their next destination.

Silas knew he couldn't just walk into a towering glass skyscraper looking like a vagrant. The world of high finance was a fortress, protected by security guards and invisible social barriers.

Using the crisp hundred-dollar bill the young man had given him, Silas walked miles to a 24-hour thrift store on the edge of the city. He bought a surprisingly well-kept, secondhand gray suit, a clean white shirt, a cheap razor, and a bar of soap. He spent the next hour in the restroom of an all-night diner, scrubbing away the grime of the streets. When he shaved the heavy, matted beard, the face in the mirror startled him. He looked older, weathered by tragedy, but the sharp, intelligent jawline of the engineer he used to be was still there.

He put on the suit. He draped the expensive cashmere overcoat over his arm. He looked like an eccentric older executive.

By 8:00 AM, Silas was standing in the grand, marble-floored lobby of Sterling Financial. He watched the executives swipe their keycards, his eyes scanning the crowd. Then, he saw him.

Julian walked through the revolving doors, looking frantic, pale, and exhausted. He was speaking rapidly into his cell phone. "I don't care what it costs, hire a private investigator. I need every homeless shelter in a five-mile radius scoured."

Silas’s heart leaped into his throat. He stepped directly into Julian’s path.

"Excuse me," Julian snapped, looking up, entirely focused on his phone.

"You left something in your coat," Silas said, his voice raspy from disuse, holding out the navy cashmere.

Julian froze. His phone slipped from his hand, clattering onto the marble floor. He stared at the coat, then at Silas’s cleaned-up face. Recognition dawned in those gray eyes, followed immediately by absolute desperation.