The lawyer found me behind a strip mall restaurant on a Tuesday afternoon, my hands deep in a dumpster, searching for anything edible that hadn’t completely spoiled. I was eighteen years old, nine days homeless, and hadn’t eaten a proper meal in forty-eight hours. The world had started to feel fuzzy around the edges, like a dream I couldn’t quite wake up from.

I spun around, ready to run. Being homeless had taught me to be wary of anyone who approached—police officers who told you to move along, other homeless people who might try to take what little you had, business owners who saw you as a problem to be removed.

But this man didn’t look like any of those threats. He looked like a lawyer from a movie, all pressed suit and confident posture, expensive watch glinting in the afternoon sun. His leather briefcase probably cost more than my car had.
“Who’s asking?” I managed, my voice cracking from disuse.

“My name is Richard Hartwell. I’ve been looking for you for three days.” He held up a business card embossed with gold lettering. “I represent the estate of James Brooks. Your grandfather.”
I shook my head, certain I was hallucinating from hunger. “I don’t have a grandfather. My father said he died before I was born.”