Poor Janitor Shares Food 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 with amnesia. He realizes he has met the boy before and even knows his rich family. Patrick embarks on a mission to help the boy find his way home. But when they arrive at the boy's mansion, a stranger answers the door instead of his parents.

Patrick had just finished his shift at the local supermarket. Having stowed the mops and brooms in the storage room, Patrick changed into his casuals and marched to the cash register to buy lunch.

Suddenly, a shabby-looking boy, seemingly about 16, bumped into Patrick.

"Watch your step, you jerk!" the teen grimaced. Patrick stared at the boy and nodded. He thought the kid was mean. However, something about the teen's pale face and frail body told Patrick that the kid was homeless...

Ignoring the boy, Patrick placed an order for a slice of pizza and soda.

"When are you going to eat normally again, Pat?" Cashier Christine looked Patrick square in the eye. "Have you seen yourself in the mirror? You've become so skinny."

Patrick nodded thoughtfully and reached for his wallet. "I know, dear. But when you're making $50 each shift, this is all you can afford!"

"...Jesus, where did I put my wallet? Did I lose it?" Patrick was alarmed when he found his pocket empty. Suddenly, a familiar voice startled him from behind.

"Is this yours?"

Patrick turned around and saw the boy he had run into just a short while ago holding a wallet.

"Oh, dear! Yes...yes, that's mine!" Patrick sighed with relief. "God bless you, young man. Christine, make that two slices of pizza and two sodas. I want to thank you for your help, boy. Today's lunch is on me, okay?" Patrick told the teen.

The boy shrugged and agreed. As he and Patrick ate, Patrick couldn't help but recall seeing the kid before.

"What's your name, boy? I'm Patrick," he broke the silence]

"Don't think we're friends just coz you offered me lunch," the boy replied. "...and anyway, I don't know my name. I don't remember anything about my past...I have amnesia."

"Oh...I'm sorry," Patrick worriedly looked at him. "What's the last thing you remember, if you don't mind telling me?"

"Not sure..." the teen sighed. "Probably five or six years ago...I remember waking up in this strange man's car one day. He muttered about taking me to the hospital or something. Then I fell asleep…"

Patrick listened intently as the boy continued. "I can only recall bits and pieces. When I woke up...I was under this bridge with these homeless people."

"What about your parents? You don't remember them?" Patrick asked.

"No. I have no idea where I came from. I wanted to find out about my identity, but the homeless people said my parents probably abandoned me. They told me that if I went to the cops, they would involve social services...and then I would be sent into the foster system."

"So I continued to live with them...helping them when they shoplifted or pickpocketed someone...in exchange for food. But I got so sick of all that sometime later, so I quit. I'm alone now…and I take care of myself!"

"Did you steal my wallet?" Patrick asked with a smile. "Don't worry...I won't report you."

"Well, it's back in your pocket right now!" the boy joked.

"Why did you return it?"

"I don't rob the poor," the boy replied. "I overheard you chatting with that cashier. I felt horrible and decided to return it."

Patrick smiled. "What do others call you? You must have something for a name."

"Double U," the boy told Patrick.

"What...what does that mean?"

"Don't freak out...but it's coz of this..." The teen lifted his hoodie sleeve and showed Patrick an unsightly W-shaped scar on his right arm.

"Oh my God...this can't be!" Patrick's heart leaped when he quickly recognized that scar.

"My gut kept telling me I've seen you somewhere, boy! I know you!" Patrick exclaimed.

"Six years ago, I was a cleaner in this private school that only admitted kids from wealthy families. I saw you there."

"You must be nine years old at the time...You were in this gang of lads that did the most heinous thing of carving a "W" on your arm...and called yourself "The Wolves."

"I even know your parents...and I know your house. You come from a wealthy family, boy. The city you lived in is about 500 miles away...in Iowa. I can accompany you to the cops...they'll contact your parents, and you can return home, kid!"

The boy laughed. "Sure, Patrick! Your fairytale…I'll give you that! And I don't want to go to the cops and get arrested. I can't risk trusting you or them."

"But..." he paused. "I wanted to get out of this city anyway. So we do it on our own. No cops, just you and me. What do you think?"

Patrick agreed, and the next day, they hitchhiked to the boy's hometown in Iowa. After an exhausting journey, they arrived outside a lavish estate.

"That's my house? You sure, Patrick...coz this is insane!" the teen asked Patrick as he scanned the charming property.

Patrick nodded and rang the doorbell.

Moments later, the door opened. "Oh my God! Dylan?!" a man cried out in shock. "Jesus...you're home!"

He hugged the boy as Patrick stood still and confused.

"My nephew is home! I can't believe it! Where did you go, Dylan? We looked for you everywhere," the man added. "Come inside. This is your home, after all...come on in!"

The man led Dylan inside, and Patrick followed them. Marching inside, Patrick noticed something was murky about the man's demeanor. Although he was surprised by Dylan's presence, he did not seem genuinely happy.

"And who are you?" the man asked Patrick.

"He's with me...his name is Patrick," Dylan replied. "And you are my uncle, right?"

The man chuckled. "Of course, I am your uncle Harold! Don't you recognize me? Oh, what am I doing?! We have plenty of time to talk. Let me first get you and your friend something to drink...you must be exhausted after the trip."

Back in the kitchen, Harold spiked the orange juice with sleeping pills and offered Patrick and Dylan a glass each.

"It's such a miracle," he said, distracting them as they began drinking the juice. "I thought I would never find you...especially after what happened to your parents in the woods."

"What happened to my parents?" Dylan gasped.

"That's a tragic story," Harold recounted. "I got a call from the cops. They told me your parents had gotten into a car crash in the woods on their way back from vacation. The car had veered off the forest and plunged into the river. Your dad died on the spot...and your mom was found dead in the river. But we never found you."

"The cops closed the case, saying you had died in the accident too...and that the river's current probably swept away your body."

Meanwhile, Dylan and Patrick's vision blurred, and they started feeling dizzy.

"I'm feeling so drowsy...and tired..." Dylan mumbled before he blacked out.

Patrick, too, felt his eyes getting heavy, and he quickly passed out moments later.

When Patrick awoke hours later, he found himself in a dark bathroom, his right hand chained to the radiator. Dylan was not with him.

The last thing he remembered was drinking the juice Harold had offered and falling asleep. It confirmed his suspicions that Harold was not who he was pretending to be.

"Jesus, that means he's going to hurt the boy...where has he kept him?" Patrick panicked.

Gritting his teeth, Patrick tried to dislocate his thumbs to get his hands free from the cuffs. It was such a painful thing to do, but he kept going, desperate to save Dylan.

After a long struggle, Patrick's wrist was finally free. Suppressing his pain, he approached a small window and looked out, only to realize he was stuck in a cabin in the woods.

Patrick tiptoed around the shack, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dylan. When he entered one of the rooms, he stumbled upon several cases stashed in a corner. Patrick opened one of them and was awestruck at the sight of thick wads of cash. He opened another, and there was more money inside.

At one point, Patrick decided to take the money and flee. It could set him up for life. While figuring out how to carry the cases outside, Harold's voice echoed from beneath the basement, catching him off guard.

"Everything was going fine. I could've killed you and inherited everything. But I pitied you...and left you alive. It was the biggest mistake I made...

...And one bullet is all I need to correct it!"

Patrick realized Harold had held Dylan captive. Although the money tempted him, he couldn't let an innocent young boy die. So Patrick mustered his courage and decided to distract Harold.

He took out his belt and tossed it upstairs as the belt landed with a thud.

"Who is there?" Harold dashed upstairs. Seizing the chance, Patrick hurried down to the basement and freed Dylan.

"We have a way out...the window behind you!" Dylan pointed to a window. "Let's go!"

Patrick and Dylan climbed out the window and fled the cabin. "We need a phone to call the cops!" Patrick groaned in pain.

"We need to take you to the hospital first, Patrick," Dylan panted. "You hurt your hand...."

As they kept running, Patrick's foot caught on a hidden tree root, and he tripped, twisting his leg painfully.

Dylan stopped in his tracks and dashed to Patrick. "I don't think you can run, Patrick...Hop on my back," he told Patrick.

Patrick hesitated, but he had no other choice. He climbed onto Dylan's back. Dylan ran with Patrick, latched onto his back. However, panic washed over them when they heard Harold's car approaching.

"I don't think this will work out," Patrick said. "Put me down...run to the road and get help. I'll distract Harold."

"No...I'm not leaving you alone," Dylan insisted.

"We'll both die this way, Dylan. Listen to me...just run and get help," Patrick cried. "Run! He's coming...Just do it, boy...GO!! Just run! Run!"

Dylan bolted onto the road, and Patrick's heart pounded. Minutes later, Harold's car pulled over in front of him.

"Where's the boy?" Harold pointed the gun at Patrick.

"I don't know!" Patrick gritted his teeth. "And there's no point in killing a poor man like me, Harold."

Patrick put on a brave face, but deep down, he was terrified. "You think those words will stop me from pulling this trigger?" Harold threatened.

Harold was about to pull the trigger, but suddenly, a stone came hurtling, smacking him on the back of his head. Harold lost control, giving Patrick an opening. He lunged at Harold, knocking him to the ground, and kicked the gun away.

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

A couple of hours later, Patrick and Dylan sat in the police station, waiting for Harold's interrogation to end.

"We have a confession," the officer approached them.

"Did he kill my parents?" Dylan asked the officer.

"No, he didn't!" the officer sighed. "Your parents most likely died in the accident. I reviewed the case files, and what Harold told us was true. But he had planned something else meticulously..."

"On the day the accident happened, Harold confessed that he went looking for your family because your mom and dad weren't answering his calls. He found their car in a river in the woods...and your parents were dead. But he saved you and drove you to the hospital, Dylan. However, when he learned you had lost your memory, he took advantage of the situation and dropped you off in a city about 500 miles away."

"You were declared dead because the cops couldn't find you...and Harold later legally inherited your father's wealth."

Patrick and Dylan left the police station, the weight of the revelation weighing heavily on the boy.

"Thank you for the adventure, Dylan," Patrick said as they stepped out of the station. "Now I need to get back to my work. My shift starts tomorrow at 8 a.m. And always remember that you have a long, bright life ahead of you. Don't let anything put you down."

But Dylan stopped him. "I wouldn't want to start a new life without you, Patrick," he held Patrick's hand. "Let's go home!" he added, placing the mansion's keys in Patrick's hand.

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