They froze. Then they spotted an elderly man crumpled near a slope, his hand shaking in the air.
“Sir!” Ethan ran, with Mason close behind.
Groceries were scattered—broken eggs, spilled milk, a torn bag.
“Can you hear me?” Mason asked.
The man’s eyes opened weakly. “I… I fell.”
“Drink some water,” Ethan said, lifting his head carefully.
He coughed but managed a few sips. “Thank you, boys. My name is Mr. Turner, and I fear I’ve caused quite a mess.”
“What happened?” Mason asked.
“I felt dizzy… next thing I knew, I was on the ground.”
When they tried calling for an ambulance, he panicked. “No. I just need to get home.”
“We’re not leaving you,” Mason said firmly.
With the boys supporting him, Mr. Turner led them down a narrow dirt path to his home. When they reached it, both boys stopped.
The trailer was ancient—rust eating through the sides, windows patched with cardboard, the structure leaning like it might collapse.
“You live here?” Mason whispered.
Mr. Turner nodded, embarrassed. He tried to pay them with a single apple—everything he had.
“We didn’t help you for that,” Ethan said gently.