He did not trust attention.
One rainy evening in November, Alexander’s driver found Benjamin behind the library, soaked through, trying to protect two books under his sweater.
Alexander had just finished a call when Lily shouted from the car, “Daddy, stop!”
Benjamin stood beneath the overhang, shivering.
His lips were bluish.
Alexander got out.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Where is home?”
Benjamin looked past him.
“Not far.”
Alexander saw the lie.
Rainwater ran from the boy’s hair into his eyes.
Lily was crying now.
“Daddy, he’s freezing.”
Benjamin’s jaw tightened.
“I’m fine.”
Alexander removed his own wool coat and held it out.
Benjamin did not take it.
“Get in the car,” Alexander said.
“No.”
“Benjamin.”
“No.”
Alexander lowered his voice.
“I am not asking you to become grateful. I am asking you not to die of stubbornness in front of my daughter.”
That worked, barely.
Benjamin got in the car.
He sat as close to the door as possible, shaking under Alexander’s coat, the books clutched to his chest.
Lily handed him a napkin.
“You’re dripping on the seat.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Daddy can buy more seats.”
Alexander closed his eyes.
Benjamin almost smiled.
They took him to the Whitmore house.
House was too small a word.
It was a limestone mansion outside the city, with iron gates, a circular driveway, warm windows, and a foyer larger than the abandoned room where Benjamin slept. He stopped just inside the entrance, shoes leaving water on marble that probably cost more than the building he called home.
A housekeeper brought towels.
The cook brought soup.
Lily brought dry socks from a drawer, though they were pink and covered in cartoon cats.
Benjamin stared at the soup like it might vanish.
Alexander sat across from him at the kitchen table.
