"Five minutes."
He walks down the hall behind her. The press is already gathering on the plaza outside; he can hear them through the glass. He is twenty minutes from a podium. He doesn't know yet that he will never reach it.
Conference Room B, 38th floor. Three people stand when Harrison Whitfield walks in. He doesn't sit.
"You have four minutes."
Olivia doesn't argue. She is not going to waste the four minutes on a hello. She walks to the screen at the end of the table, picks up the remote, and presses play.
Footage from the city's bus stop CCTV camera at the intersection of Beatties Ford and LaSalle. Tuesday, October 22nd, 3:47 p.m. through 4:53 p.m. No sound.
A Black boy in a too-thin hoodie sits down two feet from an old white woman in a cream coat. He is small. Her hands are shaking. He hands her something: half a sandwich on a folded napkin, and waits while she chews. She cries without knowing she is crying. He notices; he doesn't say anything. He just sits closer, an inch closer, the way you sit closer to someone so they aren't alone, but you don't press them.
He pulls a flip phone from his pocket. He talks into it for a long time. He nods. He keeps nodding. He takes off his hoodie and drapes it over the woman's lap. He is now in a thin gray T-shirt in 47-degree rain; he doesn't seem to notice. He holds her hand.
Sirens come. He stands up, careful not to disturb her. He talks to a paramedic. The paramedic crouches to his level. The boy points at the bench. The boy points at the woman. The boy answers questions.
When the ambulance pulls away, the boy stands alone at the bus stop in the rain in a T-shirt. He puts his backpack on. He walks home. He never looks back at the bench. He never asks for anything.
The footage ends.