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.
“I can't approve the Whitney claim. The commercial status of his unit is questionable, and the fire thirty years ago was never properly investigated.”
Director Lambert didn't even glance at the file.
He stared straight at me.
“Do you have any idea what's happening online right now?”
“Ronald's wife is a local influencer. Hundreds of thousands of followers. She livestreamed the whole thing.”
“It's already trending.”
“'Demolition official forces elderly cancer patient to his knees.'”
“'Pregnant woman begs for family's lifeline compensation.'”
“The entire internet is tearing us apart!”
He turned to the finance officer.
“The Whitney claim. Original terms. Expedite it.”
The finance officer froze for a second, then nodded.
When the red seal stamped down, something detonated inside my skull.
Minutes later, Ronald's phone buzzed.
He looked down, then shouted：
“It's here! Dad! The money's in!”
“$486,000, every last cent!”
Everyone in the conference room exhaled.
Geoffrey was still on his knees.
He lifted his head slowly and looked at me.
Then he braced himself against the table and stood.
The man who'd been gasping for his last breath a minute ago now had a straight back and steady legs.
He bowed to Director Lambert first.
“Thank you, sir. I knew the people in charge would be reasonable.”
Then Geoffrey walked over to me.
The tears on his face hadn't dried, but his eyes were completely different.
He leaned close to my ear and laughed, low and quiet.
“I thought you looked familiar. You're the James family brat.”
Every muscle in my body locked.
He recognized me.
“Thirty years, and you're still hung up on your mommy's little accident?”
“Pathetic woman. Burned head to toe and still wouldn't die. Had to throw herself off the building instead. The sound she made when she hit the ground.”
“Splat.”
“I can still hear it.”
My fingers clenched so hard the knuckles cracked.
Geoffrey saw. It made him happier.
“Want revenge?”
“Too bad.”
He patted his pocket.
“Money's in the account.”
“Four hundred eighty-six thousand. Every cent.”
“Your dad's been rotting in that bed for thirty years. Your mom's ashes have been cold for just as long. You waited all this time, and all you get to do is watch me cash out.”
“Your mother deserved to die.”
“If she were alive to see me collect this check, she'd probably jump again.”
Geoffrey stared into my eyes, his face folding into deep creases as he grinned.
He brushed past me and tossed out one last line：
“Think you can touch me?”
“Maybe next life.”
