They headed toward the SUV. Just as Daniel reached for the ignition, he noticed a boy standing near the front gate.
Eight years old. Maybe nine. Dark skin, tightly curled hair, deep brown eyes that saw more than they should. His red T-shirt was faded and too big. His sneakers were worn thin, laces tied in uneven knots.
He wasn’t begging.
He was staring at the wheelchair—not with pity, but with recognition. Like he understood pain because he lived with it.
Daniel almost drove off. Hope had become dangerous. Hope always collapsed.
But the boy stepped closer.
“Sir… can I have one minute?”
Daniel rolled down the window, more curious than patient.
“What do you want? I’m late.”
The boy pointed gently at Lily’s feet peeking out from beneath the dress.
“I can wash her feet,” he said. “And she’ll walk again.”
Daniel laughed—sharp and bitter. After countless specialists, experimental treatments, and more money than he wanted to remember, this sounded cruel.
“Listen, kid—whatever scam this is—”
