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 black town car eased to a stop in front of a crumbling red-brick tenement on Avenue C.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cracked pavement where children chased a deflated basketball. Laundry hung from rusted fire escapes, fluttering in the gritty breeze. It was a neighborhood that time, wealth, and mercy had seemingly forgotten.

In the back seat of the car, Owen Blake adjusted his tailored suit jacket, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Marcus Sterling stepped out first, holding a large, heavy manila envelope and a small wrapped box tied with a yellow ribbon.

“Are you sure about this, Owen?” Sterling asked, looking dubiously at the graffiti-scrambled front door of the building. “We could have invited them to the midtown office.”

“No,” Owen said firmly, stepping onto the sidewalk. “If you want to understand someone's world, you don't drag them into your fortress. You go to theirs.”

They climbed three flights of narrow, dim stairs smelling of old cabbage and damp plaster until they reached Apartment 3B. Owen raised his hand and knocked twice.

A long moment passed.

Then the wooden door clicked, opening a few inches restrained by a rusted security chain. A pair of large, familiar brown eyes peered out through the crack.

“Lily?” Owen said gently, lowering himself slightly so he wouldn't tower over the doorframe.

The chain rattled, and the door swung wide open.

Lily stood there wearing an oversized t-shirt with faded cartoon characters, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She stared up at the tall man in the pale blue suit, her mouth slightly open in surprise.

“You’re... you’re the man from the street,” Lily whispered.

“I am,” Owen smiled, his chest aching slightly, though this time not from his ribs. “I came to say thank you.”