On a cool autumn morning, Harrison prepared once again for another appointment at a renowned rehabilitation center in Manhattan. As his driver eased the car through the wrought iron gate, Harrison noticed a young boy standing near the entrance, his posture strangely composed for someone so small. The child appeared to be about eight years old, wearing a faded blue shirt and sneakers worn thin by miles of walking. His dark eyes were fixed not upon the car itself, but upon Noelle’s wheelchair visible through the open door.
Before the vehicle could move forward, the boy stepped closer, raising his hand politely yet confidently.
“Sir, may I speak with you for a brief moment, please?” the boy asked, his voice steady and remarkably clear.
Harrison hesitated, more surprised than irritated, then signaled for the driver to pause. He lowered the window slightly, curiosity overriding impatience.
“What is it that you want, young man?” Harrison asked, his tone restrained yet distant. “We are already running behind schedule this morning.”
The boy glanced toward Noelle, then back at Harrison with unwavering seriousness.