Poor Janitor Shares Lunch with Homeless Boy, Ends up Moving into Huge Mansion with Him Later – Story of the Day

Patrick, a poor janitor, shares his lunch with a homeless teenager. During lunch, Patrick realizes he has met the boy before and even knows his rich family. But the youngster reveals he has amnesia and doesn't remember anything, so Patrick decides to help the boy find his way home. However, when they arrive at the mansion where his parents should be living, another man answers the door.

The day seemed no different as Patrick finished his shift at the local supermarket at 2 o'clock that afternoon.

Except for a few customers that still lingered, the usually bustling mart was quiet as Patrick made his way to the storage room, where he stowed the mops and brooms in their usual spots before proceeding to his locker to change his work uniform.

Having changed into casuals, Patrick marched to the cash register when a disheveled-looking boy, who seemed no younger than 16, accidentally collided with him, pushing him off balance.

"Watch where you're going, you jerk!" The teen sneered as he walked past him, shoving him away. Patrick looked at the boy briefly and shook his head in disappointment. Kids can be mean and rude sometimes. But this young boy appeared pale and frail, and his shabby clothes only suggested he was homeless…

"I'll have this slice of pizza as usual, Christine," Patrick told the cashier, trying to get the boy off his mind. "And yeah, this soda."

"When are you going to eat normally again?" Christine glared at him as she billed his purchase. "Patrick, have you seen yourself in the mirror? You've lost a lot of weight recently. Not good for you."

Patrick searched his jeans pockets for his wallet, nodding thoughtfully. "I understand, sweetheart. But try to buy anything better than this pizza when you're making $50 each shift and dealing with inflation. I'm sure the government doesn't care about us. Wait, where did I put my wallet? Jesus, did I lose it?"

Patrick looked through his jacket pockets as well, but he couldn't find his wallet. He doubted he'd left it in his locker and was ready to go there when he was startled by a familiar voice from behind him. "Isn't this yours?" it said.

Patrick spun around to see the boy he had met before. He held out a wallet to Patrick.

"Oh my! Yes, yes! I think that's mine!" Patrick sighed in relief as he checked the wallet to ensure it was his. "God bless you, young man. Make that two slices of pizza and two sodas for today, Christine. Let me thank you for your assistance, boy. Today's lunch is on me, okay?" Patrick said.

The teen shrugged. "Yeah, whatever," he replied, accepting Patrick's offer.

Patrick invited the boy to the staff room to join him for lunch. And as they ate, Patrick kept glancing at the boy's face. He was sure he had seen the teen before, but where?

"So what's your name, boy? I'm Patrick," Patrick broke the silence between them as he took a sip of the soda. "I work as a janitor here."

The teen took a massive bite of the pizza. "Don't think we are friends just 'cause you offered me lunch," he said venomously, aggressively chewing his food. "Besides, I'm not sure what my name is. I've lost my memory. I have amnesia."

"Oh. I'm sorry," Patrick apologized, feeling sorry for the young boy. "What's the last thing you remember, if you don't mind telling me? Look, it's not every day that I get to enjoy someone's company like this, and I'm not a big fan of quiet lunches."

The youngster sighed. "I don't think my life's any better," he said. "I'm not sure if it was five or six years ago, but I woke up in this strange man's car one day. He must have muttered something about taking me to the hospital or something. I don't exactly remember what he told me.

"The thing is, I can only recall bits and pieces of what happened that day. I think I spoke to him for a few seconds before falling back asleep. The next time I wake up…I'm under a bridge where these homeless people live. I made new friends there and began living with them. That place isn't far. Just a few miles away."

"How about your parents? You have no recollection of them?" Patrick further asked.

"I had no idea who I was or where I came from when I found myself under a bridge…among strangers. I wanted to learn more about my identity and my parents, but those homeless folks told me I was crazy." He paused and chugged the drink.

"They said my parents probably dumped me under the bridge because they didn't need me, and I believed them. Those homeless guys were sly. They threatened me that if I went to the cops, they would involve Social Services. And then I would be sent into the foster system, and they told me how badly they treated the kids there. They wanted to convince me that I'd be better off with them, and that's exactly what happened. I trusted their words.

"I started living with them, helping them when they shoplifted or pickpocketed someone…in exchange for food. But after a while, I got so sick of them that I quit that mess. And I began taking care of things and myself alone."

"Did you steal my wallet?" Patrick asked with a smile. "Don't worry, I'm not going to report you or anything."

"Your wallet's in your pocket now, so no one stole it," the boy joked.

"Well, why did you decide to return it? You could've taken it, and I would have never known," Patrick argued.

"I usually rob those rich jerks. I wouldn't have returned your wallet if I hadn't overheard you chatting with that cashier. I felt horrible when I realized you couldn't afford anything but this stinking pizza, so I decided to get it back. Look, I don't attack the weak, okay?" he said with a sneer.

"I see…" Patrick nodded. "So, what do others call you? You must have something for a name, don't you?"

"Double U," he explained. "That's what everyone calls me."

"What does that even mean?"

"Don't freak out, but it's because of this…" The teen lifted his hoodie sleeve to reveal an unsightly W-shaped scar brutally drawn on the skin of his right arm.

"Jesus! This can't be!" Patrick gasped, quickly recalling why the boy seemed too familiar.

"No wonder my gut kept telling me that I knew you, boy! Your face…I knew I had seen you before! You know, six years ago, I worked as a cleaner for this private school that only admitted children from wealthy families. I noticed you there. Yes, I will never forget you and your gang of lads. You must be about nine years old at the time, the youngest of the group. You and your mates had done the heinous thing of carving a 'W' on your arms and called yourselves "The Wolves."

"That story caused quite a stir at the time because you boys did this thing in the school restroom. I know your parents, and I even remember the house you lived in! You come from a really affluent family, boy. A wealthy home. The city you lived in is…about 500 miles away. Ever heard of Iowa? You're from there. I can accompany you to the cops, they'll contact your parents, and you can return home."

The boy laughed at Patrick's story. "Sure, Patrick," he said. "Of course, all of this—whatever you are saying—it seems very interesting, I'll give you that. But I can't go to the cops. I'll be arrested within 20 seconds of walking through the door. They know me all too well there. And honestly, I can't take the risk of trusting you—or them—and giving up my freedom," he added.

"But…" he paused. "I've been wanting to get away. So I don't mind checking out this place in Iowa and confirming whether you are just some old-timer spinning a tale. Either way, I'm gonna get out of this city and never get back here. But hey, we do it on our own. No cops. What do you think?"

The next day, Patrick and the boy hitchhiked from Oklahoma to the boy's hometown in Iowa. They arrived in the city after a tiring journey and found themselves at the front entrance of a massive estate with a lush garden and angel-shaped rock fountains in the front yard.

"Are you sure we're at the right address, Patrick? Because this is insane," the youngster replied, looking around the charming property as they rang the doorbell and waited. "This is a dream. I hope we are not embarrassing ourselves."

"This is your home, boy," Patrick assured the boy as he pressed the bell again. "This place belonged to your parents. And if they're in there, I can't even imagine what they'll do when they finally see you after all these years. Let's not run away yet, okay?"

Moments later, the door to the mansion finally opened, and a man in a crisp suit stepped in the doorway. The boy couldn't recognize him, but the man's eyes grew wide as saucers as he looked at the youngster.

"Oh my god! Dylan?!" he gasped. "Jesus! You are home!"

The man lunged at the boy, pulling him in a tight hug. Patrick stood still, confused.

"Oh god, my nephew is finally here…I can't believe it! Where were you all this time, Dylan? We looked for you everywhere!" he went on. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I got carried away. Why are we doing all of the talking here? Please come in. Come on in. This is your home, after all," he added, pulling away from the boy seconds later.

The man took Dylan inside, not even noticing Patrick, but he followed them anyway. Marching inside, Patrick could tell something was up with the man's demeanor. He was surprised and shaken by Dylan's presence but not genuinely happy.

"Who are you, by the way?" he asked, snapping Patrick to the moment.

"He's with me. His name is Patrick. We came here together," Dylan replied immediately, not giving Patrick time to answer. "So…you said you're my uncle, right?"

The man chuckled as he looked from Patrick to Dylan. "Of course, I am your uncle, Dylan. I'm Harold. Don't you recognize me?" he asked. "Well, now that you are here, we have plenty of time to talk. Please make yourselves comfortable while I get you and your friend something to drink. You must be tired after the trip," Harold said, disappearing into the kitchen.

After he made sure they had settled on the living room couch, Harold sneaked powerful sleeping pills into the drinks he would offer Patrick and Dylan. He waited until the tablets dissolved completely, then marched to the seating area.

"Here," Harold said, taking a seat across from Patrick and Dylan and setting three glasses of juice and cookies on the front table.

As Dylan grabbed his glass, his eyes ran around the room filled with vintage furniture, a gorgeous chandelier dangling from the ceiling, and animal heads gracing the walls. He had no memories of this place.

"This is such a miracle," Harold remarked, distracting him. "I can't tell you, Dylan, how glad I am to have you here. I believed I would never find you, especially after what happened to your parents...in the woods. You were young. I'm not expecting you to recall everything."

"My parents?" asked Dylan, sipping the juice. "Uh, what…what happened to them?"

"Oh, Dylan, that's a tragic story, and I'm so sorry you have to find out this way. I recall that day like it was yesterday..." Harold began, reaching for his glass and running his fingers down its rim.

"I received a call from the cops. They informed me about a car accident in the woods. Turned out…you and your parents were on your way back from vacation and had met with an accident. By the time I reached the scene, the police were already there. Tragically, your family car had veered off the forest road and plunged into the river. Unfortunately, your father didn't make it, and your mother was found in the water, also deceased. But despite thorough searching, we were never able to find you."

Dylan placed the juice glass on the table, his head getting heavy. "What...why then—I mean, mom and dad…they…they are no more?" he asked painfully, trying to focus his eyes on Harold's face, but everything seemed to move.

"Yes, sadly," Harold confirmed. "It appeared as though you might have drowned in the river, and your body was swept away by the current. A few months after failing to find you, the authorities concluded that you, too, had died in the accident, and the case was closed."

"Wow, I must have been very tired after the road journey," Dylan shook his head, his vision blurry. "I—I think I will get some sleep. Can I just…lie down for a bit?" He looked at Patrick, who also seemed very tired.

"Sure, I can show you the way to your room," Harold rose from the chair.

Everything seemed to spin as Dylan got to his feet, and Harold caught him just in time as he stumbled. "I am so sleepy and tired…" Dylan managed to slur before everything went black for him.

Patrick felt his eyes getting heavy as well, and he let the glass slide from his grasp, spilling juice all over the beautiful carpet. He was weak and drowsy, and his eyes quickly closed, taking him into a deep sleep.

When he awoke hours later, a strong, pungent odor struck Patrick's senses. He grunted as he tried to move his aching body. Patrick was in a dark, abandoned place somewhere, and as his eyes eventually adjusted to the darkened surroundings, he could make out the stinky, old toilet where he was stuck, his right hand shackled to the radiator. Dylan was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh god, how…how did I get here?" Patrick shook his head, trying to recall how he reached there, but it was pointless. The last thing he remembered was drinking the juice Harold had offered and falling asleep, which confirmed his suspicions that Harold was not who he was pretending to be.

"That means he is going to hurt Dylan, too," Patrick concluded. "Jesus, where is that boy?"

Patrick knew he had to get out of there and save Dylan before it was too late. But no matter how hard he tried to break free from the handcuffs, there was no point. He would need something to cut the metal around his wrist.

But then Patrick remembered Dylan telling him a story on the drive to town about how he once fractured his bones to release himself from the officers' handcuffs. Patrick didn't believe the young boy's story earlier, but now he had no option but to try out the ridiculous trick.

Patrick gritted his teeth and tried to dislocate his thumbs in an attempt to get his hand free of the cuffs. The pain intensified as he applied more pressure, but he kept going, caring less about what would happen to him in the process.

It felt as if he would die of the pain at some point, but Patrick didn't give up, and a few more rounds of pressure were all it took. He suppressed his scream as his wrist was finally free. But the pain from the broken bones in his hand and fingers was excruciating.

With his breathing labored, Patrick climbed to his feet with the help of a nearby wall. He left the toilet, panting like a tired dog, his forehead drenched in sweat, when he noticed a window pouring a sliver of light into the darkened space.

Patrick trudged to the room's lone window, moaning in pain, and glanced out to find himself surrounded by dense foliage. He realized he was stuck in a cabin in the woods. Moving stealthily, Patrick tiptoed around the house now, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dylan or any sign of where he might be.

When he entered one of the rooms, Patrick discovered several cases heaped in a corner. Opening one of them revealed thick wads of cash, and Patrick's eyes widened at the sight of so much money. He opened another case, and there was more money inside.

At one point, Patrick decided to take the cash and flee. It might set him up for life. But while he was figuring out how to carry the cases outside, Harold's voice boomed, catching him off guard:

"Everything turned out well for me back then! I even gave you a new life! I could have killed you and inherited everything without any thorns in my path! But I pitied you then and left you alive, and it was the biggest mistake I made. But it's not too late to correct it! One bullet and all my problems will fade away!"

The noise seemed to come from the basement...downstairs. Harold had held Dylan captive, and he had a gun. Patrick was tempted by the money in front of him, but he couldn't let a young boy die. However, Patrick would be powerless against a loaded weapon. He needed to distract Harold to save Dylan. An idea struck him.

Patrick took out his belt and tossed it upstairs with all the energy his fractured hand could muster. The belt landed with a thud, and Patrick heard Harold's voice again, "WHO IS THERE?"

Patrick hid behind the room's door, waiting. Harold's heavy footsteps grew louder, then seemed to fade as he dashed upstairs. Patrick seized the chance, slipped out of the room quickly, and dashed to the basement, where he discovered Dylan bound to a chair by ropes.

"Shh…Don't make any noise! Are you okay, boy? Ahh…" Patrick's fingers ached as he slashed the ropes with a knife he found nearby, freeing Dylan.

"Patrick! Oh god, your hand…what happened?" Dylan asked worriedly, looking at the man's injured hand.

"Broke a few bones, boy. All thanks to your story. No big deal, though. Look, there's no time. We need to get out of here as soon as we can. I managed to distract Harold only for a while," Patrick admitted frantically.

"We have a way out. The window behind you," Dylan nodded, quickly making a sling for Patrick's fractured hand with his hoodie. "Let's go."

Patrick and Dylan climbed out the window and ran as fast as their legs would allow. They came across Harold's car at one point, but the vehicle was locked, forcing them to continue their journey on foot.

"We need a phone, any phone! We need help!" Patrick groaned in pain. "We can't make it without someone's help, boy. We can't let him catch us."

"We also need to take you to the hospital, Patrick. We'll get through this. We have to! Don't worry, just keep running," Dylan stated breathlessly as they sprinted through the forest. Twigs snapped beneath their feet, and leaves rustled as they made their way through the dense foliage.

At one point, Patrick and Dylan strained their ears to capture the distant sound of car engines. Realizing there must be a road nearby, they decided to head in that direction.

"Patrick, this way!" Dylan called out, following the distant sound of the vehicles. But in their desperate run for safety, Patrick's foot caught on a hidden tree root, causing him to stumble and twist his leg painfully.

"Ahh, my leg!" he winced, clutching his injured foot.

Dylan stopped in his tracks and dashed back to Patrick. "Are you okay? You think you can run?" he asked, crouching down beside the man.

"I—I'm fine. I'll manage, boy," Patrick said and tried to stand with all his might, but he was injured too badly and collapsed to the ground. He wouldn't be able to run.

"Give me your hand. I'll carry you. Hop on my back," Dylan quickly suggested, knowing that was the only way they made it out of the forest and to the road.

Patrick hesitated, but he had no other choice. With a bit of effort, he managed to climb onto Dylan's back. The weight wasn't easy for him to bear, but Dylan refused to falter. The young boy carried his partner as best as he could, despite the strain on his own strength.

However, as they struggled onward, the distant hum of an approaching car caught their attention. Panic washed over them when they realized it was the sound of Harold's car. Patrick's face turned pale.

"I don't think we'll get far like this, Dylan! You need to put me down!" Patrick said, knowing Harold would quickly catch up with them. "Run to the road and get help! Tell the police what's going on! I'll try to distract Harold!"

"No way, I won't leave you here alone!" Dylan insisted, moving as fast as he could. But he was getting tired, and he knew he couldn't carry Patrick for long. Yet, he didn't want to give up.

"Pay attention to what I'm saying, Dylan! Stop! We'll both die this way," Patrick shouted, stopping Dylan and jumping off his back, only to tumble to the ground and cry in pain. "Look, don't worry about me! I know how to deal with him and buy you time. He's coming, Dylan! Just do as I said. GO!!!" he insisted.

"Are you out of your bloody mind? I can't leave you alone here, Patrick!" Dylan crouched down. "We will get out of this together! Just hop on my back again, and we can manage! Trust me!"

"He's got a gun, idiot! Why don't you get it?" Patrick yelled at the youngster, having no other way to persuade him to leave. "Run! You are the only person who can help us! Please! Use your goddamn brain! Just run! Run!"

Dylan had no choice but to hurry to the road alone as the noises of Harold's roaring car grew louder. And Patrick's heart pounded as the boy faded into the distance. Minutes later, Harold's car stopped in front of Patrick, who was ready to face whatever happened now.

"Seems like someone couldn't get far!" Harold smirked as he got out of his vehicle with a loaded gun. "Where is your little friend?"

"I—I don't know," Patrick gritted his teeth, refusing to give in to fear.

Harold's smile widened as he pointed the gun at Patrick. "I'm not here for a chit-chat session with you! I just need to know where the boy went!" he warned the older man. "If you tell me, you get to live, or you die!"

"I can't tell you where he went because I don't know anything in the first place! There's no point in killing a poor man like me, Harold! You'll get your hands dirty for no good!" Patrick said, putting on a brave face, but in reality, he was dying on the inside.

"You think those words will stop me from pulling this trigger?" Harold scoffed. "Oh, you wish!"

Harold would've pulled the trigger, but suddenly, a stone came hurtling through the air without warning, smacking him on the back of the head.

Harold lost control and whirled around in a rage, ready to confront, or possibly shoot, whoever had thrown the stone at him, giving Patrick an opening. Drawing on every ounce of strength, Patrick lunged at Harold, knocking him to the ground and the gun away.

As they grappled, Dylan appeared from behind the trees, and, with Patrick's help, he tied Harold up. Then they called 911.

"You won't get away with this, your morons! Mark my words!" Harold growled, trying to get Dylan off of him.

Dylan glared at the man. "We'll see about that later, Uncle Harold!" he taunted the man.

A couple of hours later, Patrick and Dylan sat in the chief of police's office and waited for Harold's interrogation to end. Two hours went by when the officer approached them.

"We have a confession," the officer informed Harold and Patrick.

"Did he kill my parents? What did he say?" Dylan desperately asked the chief, hoping to learn what had happened to his parents finally.

The chief let out a sigh. "That's a bit of a long story, Dylan," he said. "But no, he didn't kill your parents. I can confirm that."

"Then what happened to them? Did Mom and Dad really…Was it an accident?" asked Dylan.

"Most likely, yes," the chief confirmed. "I had worked on that case and led your search years ago. I reviewed the case files. Everything Harold told us was true. I cross-verified it myself. But he had planned everything meticulously. He confessed to us that on the day the accident happened, he went to look for your family because your mom and dad were not answering their calls at some point. He found their car in a river in the woods, and your parents were dead. He couldn't call the police because his phone fell into the river when he was getting you out of the car. Yes, Dylan. He saved you and drove you to the hospital.

"However, on the way, you regained consciousness briefly, but you didn't remember anything, and he realized that you have amnesia. He decided to take advantage of the situation and, very cleverly, he took you to a city about 500 miles away from where he found you. He left you there and returned home, waiting for the police to call him and inform him of the accident, which he was already aware of.

"You were declared dead 'cause the cops couldn't find you, and after that, he inherited your father's wealth legally," added the officer. "I'm very sorry that things unfolded like this, and we were never able to find you."

Patrick and Dylan left the police station, after which they were supposed to be taken to the hospital. Dylan's heart felt heavy that his parents were gone. He was alone in the world now, an orphan.

"Well, thank you for the adventure, Dylan," Patrick distracted the boy as they both stopped for a moment outside the station. "It was probably the most interesting thing that happened to me in my life," he added. "And now it's time for me to go back to work; my shift starts tomorrow at 8 a.m. And yeah…always remember that you are young, kid. Don't let anything put you down. You've got a long, bright life ahead of you," he said and began leaving, but Dylan stopped him.

"I wouldn't start a new life without you," Dylan said sheepishly. "And you know, it's not fair if I get this opportunity while you don't. So I think, from now on, the mansion is not only my home but also yours," Dylan added and put the mansion's keys in Patrick's hand. "It's OUR new home!"

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