I WAS ABOUT TO RUSH ACROSS THE STREET AND PULL MY DAUGHTER AWAY FROM THE HOMELESS GIRL BESIDE HER, BUT THEN THE GIRL SAID, “DON’T MEMORIZE IT—LOOK FOR THE PATTERN,” AND EVERYTHING CHANGED.

By noon that same day, I had abandoned my morning meetings, cancelled two routine portfolio reviews, and instructed Marcus to park our town car three blocks away from the Harold Washington Library downtown.

I couldn't sit behind my glass-walled desk anymore. The infinity symbol scrawled on the brick wall of my building felt like a direct challenge—a summons from a seventeen-year-old girl living on the streets who understood my daughter better than I did.

According to the private investigator's updated notes, Maya spent her afternoons either utilizing the public computers at the library or tutoring younger kids in makeshift study groups near the South Loop park.

I sat in the back of the town car, wearing a simple wool overcoat without my usual tailored suit jacket, holding a paper cup of black coffee that had long since gone cold.

“Mr. Harrison, do you want me to go inside and look for her?” Marcus asked from the front seat, peering back through the rearview mirror with quiet concern.

“No, Marcus,” I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the bustling foot traffic flowing through the library plaza. “We wait. If you go in uniform or look like security, she’ll vanish before we even reach the revolving doors.”

We waited for nearly an hour. The autumn wind whipped amber leaves across the concrete pavement, and pedestrians hurried past with their collars turned up against the chill.

Then I spotted her.

Maya was walking out from the grand entrance of the library, her oversized coat flapping around her ankles, her duct-taped backpack slung over one shoulder. She wasn't rushing. She held a thick, paperback textbook under her arm, her eyes scanning the street with the habitual alertness of someone who always needed to know where the exits were.

I pushed the car door open before Marcus could protest.