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the strap is frayed, but it’s obviously his most prized possession.
    Probably his only possession.
    Does he live here? In this filthy alley? And where are his parents?
    “Shall I play for you?”
    His voice is just a whisper. His clothes are dirty and ragged, and the faded blue jacket he wears is about three sizes too big.
    “I heard you playing,” I tell him, keeping my voice soft and light. The last thing I want to do is scare the kid. “You’re very good. Are you alone?”
    He nods.
    “Where are your parents?”
    His face contorts in pain, and my stomach lurches. He can’t be more than five years old. Maybe six.
    “Shall I play for you?” he asks again. A little stronger this time. A little more determined.
    Because I don’t know what else to do, I nod. The covered alleyway has thankfully kept most of the snow away, so I find a flattened section of shredded cardboard and sit down. I don’t think about the fact that I’m probably ruining my thousand-dollar suit. I just sit and listen.
    The boy’s sticks pound the head of the drum.
    Rum pum pum pum.
    Rum pum pum pum.
    Each rhythmic thump pierces my soul, and when he comes to the end of his song, I reach inside my jacket for my wallet.
    “No, sir,” he says softly. “I don't need your money.”
    It’s hard not to laugh. The kid is surrounded by dumpsters and living in a cardboard box. If anyone needs my money, it’s this child.
    “What do you need?”
    “Just food.”
    “I can pay you with food?”
    The boy nods vigorously, and I notice his eyes are suddenly a little brighter. The poor guy is probably starving and could definitely use a bath. Dirt cakes his face, but he has the biggest, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
     “Why don't you come home with me?” I hear myself say. “My wife loves to cook.”
    He shakes his head. “I can't leave. My mom told me to stay here. I have to stay here.”
    “How old are you?”
    “I'm six, sir.”
    “Do you have a name?”
    “My name’s Luke.”
    “Well, Luke, my name is Justin Banks, and it's cold out here. It's going to keep snowing.”
    “Yes, sir,” he whispers, his voice trembling.
    “I could take you home with me for a little while. You could take a bath and eat some dinner with us.”
    At the mention of a bath, he smiles.
    “And then we can try to find your mom and dad.”
    The little boy bows his head, and when he looks up at me again, the light in his eyes is long gone.
    “My mom told me to stay here.”
    I close my eyes in frustration. I can talk a judge and jury into almost anything. Have I really met my match in a six-year-old living in a cardboard box?
    Maybe so.
    But I have a secret weapon.
     

     
    “You realize it is ten degrees and Christmas Eve? Do you know how hard it was to find a cab? This better be one delicious cup of coffee.”
    With a grin, I kiss my wife’s cold cheek.
    “Can the coffee wait just a bit? I want to introduce you to someone.”
    Taking her gloved hand, I gently pull her toward the alley. Understandably, she hesitates when she notices the direction in which we were headed.
    “Justin, have you lost your mind?”
    “Probably,” I mutter, but I pull her along anyway.
    With the distant light of the lantern as our guide, we slowly walk toward Luke's cardboard box. He’s still there, holding his drum. His eyes grow wide when he sees the beautiful girl by my side.
    “Luke, this is my wife. Her name is Megan.”
    Megan's eyes are frozen on the little boy. Her hand clutches mine, and I hold my breath as she examines his surroundings. There really isn't a lot to see in the dark, but you don't have to see much to know the situation isn't ideal.
    “Hi, Luke.”
    “You're pretty,” he says softly.
    I smile. Secret weapon, indeed.
    “Thank you.”
    “Shall I play for you?”
    Megan's eyes settle on the drum strapped around his tiny body, and she nods. The drumsticks begin their slow tapping, and I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close to shield her from the