He felt ridiculous. He ran companies. He moved millions with a signature. Yet here he was, defeated by a machine that had chosen the worst possible moment to die. He leaned against the driver’s door and stared at the engine as if he could shame it back to life.
Then a voice cut through his frustration. It wasn’t the rough voice of a mechanic or the pleading tone of someone asking for change. It was light, almost gentle, but carried a seriousness that didn’t belong to a child.
“Sir… do you need help?”
Ethan turned, already prepared to wave the speaker away. Then he looked down and found himself staring at a boy, no older than twelve. The child was thin, almost delicate, with the wiry look of someone who ate only to survive. His shirt had once been white but was now stained gray, and his shorts were frayed at the edges. Worn rubber sandals barely protected his feet from the hot pavement. But what stopped Ethan cold were the boy’s eyes—dark, wide, and far too sharp.
“Help me?” Ethan laughed bitterly. “What are you going to do, kid? Blow on the engine? This is high-end engineering, not a toy wagon.”