The first person to touch Owen Blake after he fell was not his driver, not his lawyer, and not one of the executives waiting to profit from his signature.

The fluorescent lights of Mount Sinai’s emergency wing hummed a sterile, headache-inducing tune.

Outside Trauma Room 3, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a scalpel. Marcus Sterling paced the length of the linoleum floor, his leather shoes squeaking with every turn. Behind him sat Arthur Vance, who had arrived twenty minutes later, his face fixed in a mask of solemn, professional grief that didn't quite reach his calculating eyes.

“Do we have a prognosis?” Vance asked, his voice low and controlled.

“They’re still operating,” Sterling said without stopping his pacing. “The medics said his heart stopped for nearly four minutes on the sidewalk. If someone hadn't started chest compressions immediately... if he had been left out there a minute longer...” Sterling trailed off, shuddering.

Vance frowned slightly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Compressions? From who? The driver was stuck with the car three blocks away.”

“A civilian,” Sterling replied. “An ambulance crew report said a little girl. Some kid who happened to be walking by with her mother's medicine.”

Vance let out a dry, humorless laugh. “A child? On Fifth Avenue? That sounds like a fairy tale designed to soften the press release.”

“It’s not a fairy tale,” a quiet voice interrupted from the corner of the corridor.

Both men turned.

Sitting on a hard plastic chair near the water cooler, swinging her legs slightly because her feet couldn't reach the floor, was Lily.

She still had the brown pharmacy bag clutched tightly in her lap. Her sneakers were scuffed with gray sidewalk dust, and a smudge of soot ran along her jawline where she had wiped her face with the back of her hand. An intake nurse had tried to take her to social services an hour ago, but Lily had refused to budge, telling the nurse with terrifying calm that she was waiting for her mother's medicine to be safe, and that the tall man in the suit needed to wake up so she could know if he was okay.

Marcus Sterling stared at her. He walked over slowly, crouching down so his eyes were level with hers.

“Are you the little girl?” Sterling asked gently.

Lily nodded once. “I'm Lily.”

“You helped Mr. Blake?”

“He fell down,” Lily said simply. “He wasn't breathing good. I told the man in the uniform to call the numbers. My mom says when people fall, you stay with them so they aren't scared.”

Sterling looked at the small, fierce face, then up at Vance, who had strolled over with an expression of mild, detached curiosity.

“Well, young lady,” Vance said, stepping in with a practiced, smooth smile that felt greasy. “You did a very brave thing. Now, run along home. Your mother must be worried sick. Here—” Vance reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp, hundred-dollar bill, holding it out between two fingers like a ticket. “Take this for your trouble. Buy yourself something nice.”

Lily didn't look at the money. She looked straight into Vance’s cold eyes.

“My mom says you shouldn't take money from strangers,” Lily said clearly. “And she says people who smile without their eyes aren't real friends.”