Downstairs, far from polished floors and controlled air, a boy pushed through the revolving doors of the private hospital entrance.
He didn’t belong there.
You could tell from a distance.
His clothes were worn thin, his sneakers split at the sides, and a large black trash bag—half full of plastic bottles—hung from his shoulder. He carried it the way other children carried schoolbags.
His name was Leo.
He paused just inside the entrance, blinking at the brightness, his eyes adjusting to a world that wasn’t built for him.
People stared.
Some frowned.
A nurse approached him immediately.
“You can’t be in here,” she said, her voice sharp but tired. “This area is restricted.”
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