Ethan blinked. He had heard everything since the accident: miracle clinics, experimental devices, prayers for sale. He felt the familiar mix of anger and exhaustion rise in his chest. “That’s not funny,” he said gently but firmly.
The girl shook her head. “I’m not joking. His legs are asleep, not broken.”
Noah leaned forward. “How do you know?”
She crouched so her eyes were level with his. “Because they still listen. They’re just afraid.”
Ethan tightened his grip on the wheelchair handles. “Where are your parents?”
“Gone,” she said. “But not far.”
She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small glass vial. Inside, a clear liquid shimmered faintly, catching the sunlight like a trapped morning. Ethan felt a chill. “What is that?”
“Water,” she said. “From where listening never stops.”
He laughed—too sharp. “Absolutely not.”
The girl didn’t flinch. She turned to Noah instead. “Do your legs tingle at night?”
Noah’s eyes widened. “Sometimes. Like ants.”
Ethan’s laughter died.
“I won’t hurt him,” the girl said. “If it doesn’t work, you can leave. I won’t ask again.”