“Do you really think it’ll work?” Evan asks quietly.
The boy grins, one tooth slightly crooked. “I don’t think, man. I know.”
He kneels. “I’m Samuel Parker. I’m going to wash your feet, and you’re going to walk again.”
Anger flares in my chest. I rush downstairs, authority clinging to me like armor. Halfway there, I stop. My wife, Laura, is hidden behind a column, tears sliding silently down her face. She grips my arm.
“Wait,” she whispers. “Look at Evan.”
Evan reaches out—not to push Samuel away, but to accept him.
Samuel pours warm water into the basin, adds rosemary, basil, coarse salt. The scent pulls me backward into memories I forgot I missed. The garden stops feeling staged.
“What’s going on here?” I demand.
“I’m helping your son,” Samuel replies calmly.
I warn him this is private property. He nods. “Doctors see machines,” he says. “My grandma saw roots. Evan isn’t broken. He’s disconnected.”
My stomach tightens. I’ve used that word myself.
“Dad,” Evan says softly. “Please. It’s the first time I feel something.”
