Eight top doctors stood in silence around the hospital bed.
The heart monitor showed a single, unbroken line.
Flat.
The five-month-old son of billionaire Richard Coleman had just been declared clinically dead.
Machines worth millions had failed.
The best specialists in New York had failed.
And at that exact moment, a thin, dirty ten-year-old boy pushed his way into the private wing.
His name was Leo.
He smelled like the streets. His sneakers were torn. A large bag of collected bottles hung from his shoulder. Security tried to stop him. A nurse told him to leave.
But Leo had seen something.
Something small.
Something everyone else had missed.
