The boy tilted his head, processing the information. There was no pity in his gaze, which Fernando appreciated. Instead, there was a strange determination. Sergio walked right up to the wheelchair and, without asking permission, placed his small hand—soiled with garden dirt—onto Fernando’s motionless knee.
“Can I pray for you?” he asked naturally.
Fernando almost let out a cynical laugh. A man of science and numbers, he didn’t believe in such things. But looking at the brutal sincerity in the child’s face, he didn’t have the heart to say no. He gave a slight nod, closing his eyes more out of weariness than faith.
Sergio didn’t recite complex prayers. He simply closed his eyes and whispered words that sounded like a conversation with an invisible friend, asking that “Mister Fernando stop being sad and that his legs wake up.”
And then, it happened.
It wasn’t a lightning bolt or a thunderclap. It was heat. A wave of gentle warmth, as if someone had lit a small fire beneath his skin, began to rise from his ankles to his thighs. Fernando’s eyes snapped open, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stared at his feet. “Move…” he whispered, focusing every ounce of his will.