It was there, in that brief moment on the cold Chicago pavement, that something buried deep inside Richard Adams gave a faint, undeniable flicker of life.
No human being is born knowing how to accept the hand life deals them. Richard Adams had been forced to learn that reality in the most agonizing way imaginable.
2 years earlier, he had been a vibrant 30-year-old man. As the only son of 1 of the wealthiest real estate magnates in the state of Illinois, he had inherited the family empire young. The Adams Group had been built carefully by his late father, brick by brick. Richard had grown up in wealth so complete that he had never been required to struggle for anything. Money was always present, constant, and unquestioned.
Progressive multiple sclerosis.
The senior neurologist had spoken the diagnosis slowly, as if stretching out the syllables could reduce its force. It changed nothing.
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