Hamilton nodded slowly. He had spent years calculating construction costs before anything else, and for once he understood that the building would be the least complicated part. "My company can commit five hundred thousand dollars toward development and first-year operations," he said. "I'll make the pledge formal once we know who will run it."
Dr. Moore did not promise money that belonged to the hospital. She offered to take the proposal to its community-health leaders and ask whether a partnership could be developed, possibly involving a quarter-million-dollar institutional commitment and supervised volunteer participation. Victoria said her own development board might contribute another hundred thousand dollars if the plan met appropriate standards. For a moment, Miles listened to adults building a future with the same care Rebecca had once used to plan a week's groceries.
"What would you call it?" Victoria asked.
Hamilton looked at Miles. "Your mother's name, if you want. The Rebecca Underwood Memorial Clinic."
Miles stared at the wristband. Nobody had spoken Rebecca's full name with such care since the hospital social worker helped him identify her belongings. The idea of a place where her name might mean help instead of grief seemed too large to fit in his thoughts. "Would people have to pay?" he asked finally.
"No one would be turned away because they couldn't pay," Dr. Moore said. "We'd have to work out funding and services, but that should be one of the promises we build around."
"And would somebody listen when they say something is wrong?"
Hamilton put his hand over his heart. "We can make that part of how we measure whether it's working. Not just a sign on the wall. A responsibility."
Miles began crying then, suddenly and with no effort to hide it. The tears came before he understood why, bringing up grief he had kept pinned down for months because crying outdoors could make him vulnerable. Victoria crouched beside him, but she did not reach to embrace him without asking. "Would a hug help?" she whispered, and Miles nodded so quickly that he almost dropped his bowl.
She held him carefully. He smelled of rain, concrete, and the jacket he had worn far too long, and she felt how little there was between his bones and the world. Hamilton leaned forward, then stopped, realizing the child should get to decide who touched him. Miles reached for his hand instead.
By 9:45, an on-call child-welfare social worker named Alicia Grant had arrived at the restaurant. She was not impressed by Hamilton's reputation or the cameras pointed toward him. She introduced herself to Miles first, asked whether he had eaten, and explained in simple language that her job was to find a safe place for him to sleep while adults checked his situation. She also asked whether he felt comfortable speaking somewhere away from the crowd.
Miles watched her closely. He had heard similar promises before and had learned that being moved from place to place could be frightening even when everyone involved meant well. "Are you going to take my papers?" he asked. "Somebody took my bag once and I never got it back."