And now, in a moment that felt unreal, her shaking hands gripping the arms of her wheelchair, Margaret was standing.
Her legs were supporting her.
The barefoot boy watching her seemed far too calm for his age. His hazel eyes held something she couldn’t quite define. Compassion. Maybe wisdom. Or simply the kind of faith only a child still believes in.
“How…?” she whispered, her voice trembling as badly as her knees. “How did you do this?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lowered himself onto the porch step as if nothing extraordinary had just happened.
“I didn’t heal you, ma’am. You were already healed.”
The words made her dizzy. She eased back into the chair—not because she couldn’t stand, but because she needed to breathe.
“What did you say?”
His expression remained steady.
“Three years ago, you were in an accident, right?”
She nodded slowly. The memory still stung. A car crash. A distracted driver ran a red light. The impact shattered her spine. The most respected neurosurgeons in the country handled her case. The surgery was labeled a success.
But she never walked again.
“The doctors told you the damage was permanent,” he continued. “That you’d never regain mobility.”