She swallowed hard. “I can’t wake up my mom.”

Something twisted sharply in his chest.

“What do you mean? Where is she?”

“At home. I called her name lots of times. She won’t open her eyes. She’s on the floor by the couch. She said… ‘If it’s an emergency, go get help.’ I put my coat on and left. But… nobody listens. Everyone just keeps walking.”

Tears traced down her pink cheeks. Grayson’s instincts snapped into motion, not for negotiations or mergers this time.

“What’s your name?”

“Talia. Talia Summers.”

“I’m Grayson. I’m going to help you. Can you show me where you live?”

She nodded, offering her hand. Even through the mittens, her fingers felt icy. Grayson held it gently and let her lead.

Past neon storefronts and polished windows. The city shifted. Streets narrowed. Buildings aging into silence. They stopped in front of a narrow brownstone. Talia tugged a key from a string around her neck, but her trembling hands fumbled it.

“Here. I’ve got it.”

He unlocked the door. Up stairs with threadbare carpet, wallpaper curling at the seams. On the second floor, Talia pushed open a cramped apartment. Grayson read the room like a puzzle: children’s drawings taped crookedly to the wall. A tiny Christmas tree dressed in handmade ornaments. A two-chair table flanked by hope and exhaustion.

Then he saw her. A woman collapsed beside an armchair. He crossed the room fast. Checked her pulse. Faint, but alive. Her skin pale. Her forehead burning.

“Talia, I’m calling an ambulance. Stay right here.”

She hugged her backpack closer. While he relayed details to the 911 operator, his gaze caught on overdue medical bills, an empty prescription bottle on the counter, a calendar scrawled with double shifts. A life drowning under responsibility.

Paramedics stormed in. Checked vitals. Lifted the woman to the stretcher. Talia b/urie/d her face in Grayson’s coat, shaking as her mother was taken away.