The wind sliced through the crowded streets of New York City, tugging at torn jackets and scattering paper cups down the gutter. Samantha “Sam” Miller, fifteen years old, pulled her thin hoodie tighter and pressed her back against a cold brick wall near a coffee shop. Her stomach growled so loudly that the woman walking past glanced at her before turning away quickly.
Sam had been living on the streets since her mother died two years earlier. Her father—once a mechanic—had drowned his grief in alcohol and disappeared one night, leaving her to fend for herself. Shelters were always full, and the streets had taught her more about survival than any classroom ever could.
That morning, as she walked past the entrance of a luxury hotel, something caught her eye—a black leather wallet, gleaming faintly on the wet pavement. People hurried around it, too focused on their own lives to notice. Sam hesitated, then picked it up.
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