“I saw the little girl in the wheelchair,” he said calmly. “If you allow me, I can wash her feet, and she will walk again.”
For several seconds, silence filled the air before Harrison erupted into laughter, loud and incredulous, the reaction of a man who had spent fortunes battling reality only to be confronted with absurdity.
“That is an extraordinary claim,” Harrison replied between strained chuckles. “After consulting some of the most respected physicians in the country, you believe you can succeed where they have not?”
“It is not a trick, sir,” the boy answered gently, entirely unfazed by ridicule. “My grandmother taught me certain techniques using plants and pressure. She has helped many people in our neighborhood who struggled with pain and movement.”
Something in the boy’s expression gradually stilled Harrison’s laughter. There was no hint of desperation, no expectation of reward, only a quiet conviction that resisted dismissal.
Noelle, who had been observing silently, leaned forward with unexpected interest, her small fingers gripping the armrests.
“Daddy, who is he?” she asked softly, her voice fragile yet curious.
The boy smiled warmly, his composure softening.