Ricardo turned, ready to explode, but froze. A boy—no more than twelve—stood there, shirt torn, hair messy, eyes sharp beneath smudges of oil.
“Do you want help, sir?” the boy asked calmly.
“Go away,” Ricardo snapped. “I don’t need charity.”
“I’m not offering charity. I’m offering to fix your car.”
Ricardo laughed loudly. “You? Touch this car? You’re joking.”
The boy didn’t flinch.
“The engine overheated. The water pump seized. I heard it before it stopped.”
Ricardo’s laughter died.
“How would you know that?”
He stepped out of the car, towering over the boy. “This car costs more than anything you’ve ever seen. I won’t let you near it.”
“Then wait,” the boy said, gesturing to the traffic. “It’ll take hours.”
Ricardo hesitated. The crowd was growing.
“My father works there,” the boy added, pointing to a small auto shop nearby. “We fix cars. Let me look.”
Ricardo scoffed. “That shack? This isn’t some old sedan.”
Just then, three men approached—Ricardo’s business associates.
“What happened?” one of them, Marcos Ibarra, asked, amused.
“The car broke down,” Ricardo said bitterly.
“And the kid?”
“He claims he can fix it.”
They burst out laughing.
“I’d pay to see that,” Marcos said, filming.