“No.”
“Then what were you doing yesterday?”
He gestured toward the seat.
“Please, sit.”
I climbed inside, still confused.
The door closed quietly behind me.
“Why were you asking people for food?” I asked.
He folded his hands calmly.
“Because once a year, I like to remind myself what the world looks like from the ground.”
“That sounds like a test.”
“In some ways, it is.”
He looked out the window briefly.
“Yesterday, I asked over twenty people for help.”
“How many helped you?” I asked.
“You did.”
I shifted in my seat.
“It was just half a sandwich.”
“But it was everything you had.”
He looked at me carefully.
“That matters.”
I hesitated.
“So… why am I here?”
He smiled.
“My name is Charles Whitmore. I own Whitmore Development Group.”
I still had no idea what that meant.
But the way the driver straightened slightly when he said it told me it was something big.
Whitmore continued, “I grew up poor, Mike. Slept in my car when I was nineteen. Built my first company from nothing.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“So when I see someone young, struggling, but still kind… I pay attention.”
I swallowed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I want to help you.”
My heart started beating faster.
“Help how?”
“What do you want to do with your life?”
“Music,” I said immediately.
“What instrument?”
“Guitar.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
Leave a Comment