Geoffrey Whitney pulled two cartons of cigarettes from his bag and slid them under the table.

“Sir, just a little something. Please don't take offense.”

I glanced down.

Premium brand.

Thirty years ago, he'd used the same cigarettes to pay off the building electrician.

The day after the fire, my father took me to Building Management to raise hell.

The electrician was squatting by the entrance, smoking. The same brand dangling from his lips.

He blew a lazy smoke ring and said：

“Wiring burns out all the time. Old building, you know? Happens to somebody every year.”

I pulled my gaze back. Kept my voice flat.

“Take them back.”

The smile on Geoffrey's face stiffened.

Ronald couldn't hold it in any longer.

“Sir, why was our compensation frozen? Everyone else gets to sign, but not us? What's that supposed to mean?”

“Our card parlor's been running for over thirty years! Ask anyone in the neighborhood. We've got a business license, we've paid our taxes. What right do you have to flag us?”

I opened the file.

“You filed as a legally registered commercial property, correct?”

“Requesting compensation at the commercial rate. Four hundred eighty-six thousand dollars?”

Ronald sneered.

“Wasn't that your office's own calculation? What, trying to back out now?”

Geoffrey quickly grabbed his arm.

“Ronald, that's no way to talk to the man in charge.”

Then he turned back to me with a smile.

“Sir, you know how young people are. Hot-tempered. Don't hold it against him. Our place really is a commercial property. Over thirty years of uninterrupted business. Everyone around here knows Old Whitney's card parlor.”

I looked at him.

“Do you remember the fire from thirty years ago?”

The conference room went silent.

The smile on Geoffrey's face faded, slowly.

He stared at me for a few seconds, as if trying to place something.

But he still didn't recognize me.

“What fire?”

“Maplewood Gardens, Building 3, Unit 1. Thirty years ago, middle of winter. Electrical short circuit in the middle of the night. Kitchen on the fourth floor caught fire.”

I said it word by word.

“You don't remember?”

Something flickered behind Geoffrey's eyes.

“Sir, that was ages ago. Old building, old wiring. Whose place didn't have some kind of incident? Besides, the police, the fire department, the District Office all came out and looked. None of them said it was our fault.”

I looked at Geoffrey Whitney's face.

Thirty years, and he was still running the same script.

My mother, burned so badly that every inch of her was wrapped in gauze, lying in a hospital bed unable to make a sound even when she cried.

He'd said the same thing to my father then.

He'd said：

“Leslie, your wife got unlucky. You can't pin that on me.”

“If you ask me, your wife was just born to die young. Nothing anybody can do about it.”

My father rushed him that day.

Five or six men came pouring out of Geoffrey's card parlor and pinned my father to the ground, beating him.

My father, who had never bent his back for anyone in his life, had it broken for him on that pavement.

Blood covered his head and face, but he still tried to shield it with his hands so the boy standing in the doorway wouldn't see.

I stood in the doorway, crying.

Geoffrey crouched down and patted my cheek.

“Kid, go home and tell that broke father of yours to quit stirring up trouble. Your mom's already done for. If something happens to your dad too, there'll be nobody left to look after you.”

Now he sat across from me, face full of innocence.

I felt something rise in my chest, slow and heavy, pressing upward.

But I didn't lose my temper.

I just said：

“That's why we're reopening the investigation.”

Ronald slammed his palm on the table.

“You're doing this on purpose!”

“One word from you about reopening an investigation and our family's money just disappears? We need that money for a house! My wife's about to give birth. We already picked the place. And now you're telling me it's just frozen, like that?”

His wife's eyes were red too.

“Sir, our family really needs the money. You can't do this to us. Everyone else has signed already, and you're holding up our family alone. How is that fair?”

Fair.

When I heard that word, I nearly laughed.

Thirty years ago, my father knelt outside the District Office, begging them for an explanation.

They said the same kind of things.

“Stop causing trouble. Geoffrey Whitney has it tough too.”

“You're all neighbors. You see each other every day.”

“The man's got a business to run. You people blocking his door all the time, isn't that bullying?”

Back then, nobody asked if my mother was in pain.

Nobody asked why my father's hair turned white overnight.

And nobody asked whether an eight-year-old boy who watched his mother fall from the thirtieth floor would have nightmares for the rest of his life.

Geoffrey saw me go quiet and took it as a crack in the wall.

He nudged the carton of cigarettes closer to me.

“Sir, let's talk this out. Whatever paperwork we need to file, we'll file it. Whatever dinners need buying, consider them bought. How about this: tonight's on me. We'll find a nice spot, sit down, have a proper chat.”

I looked down at the two cartons of cigarettes.

A few seconds passed. Then I reached out and picked them up.

Geoffrey's eyes lit up.

The next second, I tossed them into the trash can beside my desk.

“Geoffrey Whitney.”

It was the first time I called him by his full name.

The smile on his face collapsed completely.

I looked at him and said, word by word：

“Your household isn't just having its contract suspended.”

“Starting today, your entire compensation eligibility is under comprehensive review.”

“If you want to claim commercial-rate compensation for that storefront, you'll need to prove it was a legally operated business from day one.”

“And if the investigation finds any unauthorized electrical wiring during its years of operation, your compensation bracket gets recalculated.”

“Are we clear?”

Ronald's face went scarlet.

“You're screwing us over on purpose!”

He opened his mouth to keep going, but Geoffrey grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

“Ronald. Enough.”

His voice dropped all at once.

The slick, oily expression he'd worn moments ago crumbled.

He stared at me, lips twitching, like something had been building inside him for a long time.

Then, Geoffrey Whitney dropped to his knees.

He knelt on the floor, both hands gripping the edge of the table, face tilted up toward me. His eyes turned red in an instant.

“Sir, I'm begging you.”

“I'm begging you.”

His voice shook. He sounded like he'd aged ten years in a breath.

“I know you people in charge can decide whether folks like us live or die with a single word. But my family can't wait any longer.”

Geoffrey wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I have liver cancer.”

The moment those words left his mouth, every voice near the conference room door went silent.

At some point, a crowd of residents from the demolition zone had gathered outside.

In an old neighborhood facing teardown, every dollar of someone's compensation was everybody's business.

The Whitneys had been causing a scene since they arrived, and people had been craning their necks down the hallway for a while now.

But the word "cancer" changed every face in that corridor.

Ronald's eyes went red as he rushed to help his father up.

“Dad, get up. We don't beg him.”

Geoffrey shook off his son's hand.

“If I don't beg him, what am I supposed to do?”

He turned toward the crowd in the hallway, and his voice caught.

“Neighbors, you all know what kind of man I am.”

“Sure, I ran a card parlor. Sure, I made a little money. But I never stole from anyone, never robbed anyone.”

Halfway through, he slammed his fist against his own chest.

“Now I'm sick. The doctors say I need surgery, chemo, medication.”

“My daughter-in-law's about to give birth. My grandchild's almost here.”

“Our whole family depends on that demolition money to survive!”

His shoulders shook with every sob.

“Sir, I don't know what I did to offend you.”

“If something I said before rubbed you the wrong way, I'll get on my knees and beg your forgiveness.”

“Just don't hold up my family's money.”

“This old life of mine really does depend on that payout.”

And then he actually did it. He slammed his forehead against the floor.

The linoleum thudded with each hit.

Philippa started crying too, clutching her belly as she bent down to pull him up.

“Dad, stop, your body can't take this.”

Ronald's eyes were bloodshot. He jabbed a finger at me and shouted：

“You happy now?”

“My dad's already like this. What more do you want?”

The hallway crowd started murmuring.

“Lord, liver cancer? That's a death sentence.”

“If the demolition money gets held up, where's he supposed to get money for treatment?”

“Can't you people just talk it out? The man's on his knees.”

“Old Whitney's always been a bit of a mooch, sure, but you don't have to push a man to his grave.”

The voices started low.

Then they got louder.

A woman with a tight perm elbowed her way to the doorway and spoke directly at me.

“Sir, let me say something fair here.”

“Old Whitney runs his mouth, sure, but the man has cancer now. Can't you just let him sign the papers first? We're talking about a human life.”

An older man in a floral shirt nodded along.

“That's right. You government folks still need to show some compassion.”

“His daughter-in-law's pregnant. If the old man can't get treatment and dies, that baby's born without a grandfather. How sad is that?”

“You can't be that heartless.”

Geoffrey was still on his knees.

Tears streaked his entire face.

He looked truly pitiful.

If I weren't Peter James.

If I weren't the child who'd stood outside that fire thirty years ago, watching them carry my mother out.

I probably would have felt sorry for him too.

Geoffrey saw my silence and cried harder.

He shuffled forward on his knees, reaching for the cuff of my pants.

“Sir, I'm on my knees. Isn't that enough?”

“I know you people look down on guys like me who run card parlors. Think we're uneducated. No class.”

“But I'm still a person.”

“I still want to live.”

He tilted his face up at me, tears running down every crease and fold.

“You can't cut off my only chance of survival over some incomplete paperwork.”

A few people in the hallway wiped their eyes.

“Sir, you're so young. How is your heart this cold?”

“Didn't your parents teach you any decency?”

My fingers went still.

Parents.

She actually brought up my parents.

Geoffrey had his head bowed. The corner of his mouth twitched, just once.

Quick.

No one else saw it.

But I did.

He was smiling.

I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, the fire inside me had gone quiet.

I looked at Geoffrey.

“Liver cancer?”

“Submit your medical records, diagnosis report, and all treatment receipts.”

Something lit up behind Geoffrey's eyes.

“Sir, then our compensation……”

I looked at that calculating face and gave a thin smile.

“If the diagnosis checks out, I can process a hardship-aid application for temporary relief.”

“But the demolition compensation review continues.”

Before long, hurried footsteps echoed up the stairwell.

The entire leadership team from the Greenfield urban renewal project had arrived.

Director Lambert was at the front.

The second he stepped through the door and saw Geoffrey on his knees, his expression darkened.

“Peter, what the hell is going on here?”

I pushed the file across the table.