Daniel Moore froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.
The young Black girl standing before him looked no older than eleven. Her pale blue cotton dress was worn thin, and though her hands were smudged with dirt, her hair was neatly tied back.
Across the table sat Lucas, Daniel’s ten-year-old son, silent in his wheelchair. His legs rested motionless beneath his jeans, too thin for a boy his age.
Daniel let out a short, humorless laugh. “You think you can heal my son? You’re just a kid.”
The girl didn’t waver. “I don’t want money. Just food. One meal, and I’ll help him the way my grandmother helped people where I come from.”
For three years, Daniel had watched Lucas’s world shrink after the car crash that killed his wife, Emma. Lucas survived, but his spine was badly damaged. Doctors had been clear—he would never walk again.
“Please, Dad,” Lucas murmured. “Let her try.”
Against every instinct, Daniel nodded to the waiter. The girl introduced herself as Maya Brooks, and when the food arrived, she ate quickly, like someone who hadn’t had a proper meal in days.
When she finished, she spoke softly. “Can we go somewhere private? I’ll show you.”
Daniel hesitated, then pushed Lucas toward the small park behind the café. Maya knelt, gently rolled up Lucas’s pant leg, and began pressing and stretching his muscles with slow, deliberate movements.
“This is ridiculous,” Daniel muttered.
But Lucas frowned. “Dad… it feels weird. But good.”
Maya nodded. “He needs deep muscle work. His nerves aren’t dead—his muscles are shutting down. And the medicine he’s taking is making it worse.”
Daniel stiffened. “What medicine?”
“The pills your wife gives him. The ones that make him cold and sleepy,” Maya said evenly. “They slow the blood. I’ve seen it before.”