The demolition notice had been taped to the brick wall for six days.

By Friday morning, the paper had become wrinkled from rain, but the most important words were still perfectly visible:

PROPERTY CLEARED FOR REDEVELOPMENT.
VACANCY REQUIRED WITHIN ELEVEN DAYS.

Joseph Reed stood beneath the notice and read it again.

He had read it so many times that he no longer needed to look at the paper.

He knew every word.

He knew the deadline.

He knew the name of the development company.

And most importantly, he knew the fourteen people who would be sleeping on the street if nothing changed.

Joseph was seventy-one.

His gray beard had grown unevenly during the winter, and his old brown coat had a tear near the left elbow.

He carried everything important in a canvas bag.

There was no apartment waiting for him.

No office.

No car.

No family home.

For the last several years, Joseph had lived wherever he could find a safe place.

But Lammer Street was different.

It was home.

Not because he owned anything there.

He owned nothing.

It was home because people knew his name.

"Morning, Joe."

Joseph turned.

Gloria stepped out of the building carrying a plastic grocery bag.

She was fifty-eight and had spent years fighting her way back from addiction.

"Morning."

"Any news?"

Joseph looked at the demolition notice.

"Not yet."

Gloria sighed.

"Eleven days."

"I know."

"I'm four months away."

"Four months away from what?"

"Section 8."

Joseph nodded.

"I remember."

"If they knock this building down now, I lose my place."

"I know."

Gloria looked down.

"I don't want to start over again."

Joseph placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You won't."

She looked at him.

"You sure?"

Joseph smiled.

"I don't make promises I can't keep."

That afternoon, he walked through the building.

Fourteen families lived there.

Not legally, according to the paperwork.

But they lived there.

There was Terrence, twenty-nine, who worked two jobs and had two little daughters.

There were Edmund and Celeste, an elderly Haitian couple who spoke limited English.

There was Maria, a single mother with a nine-year-old son.

There was Daniel, a veteran who had lost his apartment after a medical emergency.

They weren't numbers.

Joseph knew their birthdays.

Their fears.

Their favorite foods.

The names of their children.

He knew who needed medication.

Who needed transportation.

Who had nowhere else to go.

That was why he refused to simply accept the demolition notice.

For nine days, Joseph tried everything.

He wrote letters.

He called the development company.

He visited the city housing office.

He attended a city council meeting.

He went to a legal aid clinic.

Everywhere, he heard the same answer.

"The permits are legal."

"There isn't enough time."

"The residents don't have recognized leases."

"We're sorry."

Sorry had become the most useless word in Joseph's vocabulary.

On the tenth evening, he sat inside the basement of an old church.

A volunteer handed him a cup of coffee.

"You look tired, Joe."

"I am."

"Are you giving up?"

Joseph smiled.

"No."

"What are you going to do?"

Joseph looked toward the window.

"Go upstairs."

"Where?"

"To Hail Capital."

The volunteer almost dropped the coffee.

"You mean the tower?"

Joseph nodded.

"The billionaire's headquarters?"

"That's the one."

"You can't just walk in there."

Joseph smiled.

"Apparently, nobody has told me that yet."

The next morning, Joseph put on his cleanest shirt.

It was still old.

His coat was still torn.

His shoes were still worn.

But he carried himself differently.

Because he wasn't going there to ask for charity.

He was going there to ask for sixty days.

Sixty days for fourteen families to find somewhere safe to go.