Eight specialists stood silently around the hospital bed. The heart monitor showed one long, 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 medical minds in New York had failed.
And at that exact moment, a skinny, dirty ten-year-old boy forced his way into the private wing.
His name was Leo.
He smelled like the street. His sneakers were torn. A large trash bag full of bottles hung over his shoulder. Security tried to stop him. A nurse told him to leave.
But Leo had seen something.