Zeke stared longer than usual. Then just before they passed, he stood up and called out, Sir, I can make your daughter walk again. Jonathan stopped mid-step.
Not because he was offended or confused, but because of how the words were said. Not like a sales pitch. Not like a joke.
Just soft, clear, and serious. Like Zeke believed it completely. Jonathan turned, eyes narrowed.
What did you just say? Zeke didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, tucking his notebook under his arm. I said I can help her walk again.
Jonathan stared at him, his arms tightened around Isla. That’s not funny, kid. I wasn’t joking.
Zeke’s voice didn’t shake. There was no smile. Just that same quiet tone.
A grown-up kind of stillness in a kid’s body. Jonathan looked down at Zeke’s clothes, his taped-up boot. The cracked lenses of the glasses hanging from the boy’s shirt collar.
This had to be some weird coincidence. Maybe even a scam. He turned and walked inside without another word.
But inside, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way the kid said it. Not with hope.
Not with doubt. But like it was a fact. But something about that voice stayed stuck in Jonathan’s head.
And it was going to keep pulling at him until he came back. Jonathan tried to forget about the kid. For the next few hours, he sat through Isla’s appointments.
Nodding through updates from therapists, neurologists, and specialists. All of them using the same phrases they always did. Managing expectations.
Long road ahead. Miracles take time. He’d heard it all.
But Zeke’s words kept repeating in his mind like a stubborn itch. I can make your daughter walk again. By early afternoon, Jonathan and Isla stepped out of the building.
The sun had broken through the clouds, but the cold was still sharp. He walked toward the car, cradling Isla as usual, when he noticed Zeke again. Still there.
Same box. Same notebook. Except this time, he was looking right at Jonathan like he knew he’d come back.
Jonathan hesitated. He glanced at Isla. Her head rested on his shoulder.
Eyes closed. Her body was light. Too light for a kid her age.
He turned. You again? He muttered, walking over. Why would you say something like that? You think this is funny? Zeke shook his head slowly.
No, sir. You don’t even know her. Jonathan snapped, lowering Isla gently into the back seat.
You don’t know what she’s been through. You don’t know what we’ve been through. Zeke didn’t back down.
I don’t have to know her to help. Jonathan straightened up. You’re what, nine? Almost ten.
Exactly. You’re a little boy sitting outside a hospital with duct tape on your shoes. What could you possibly know about helping someone like my daughter? Zeke looked down, his fingers tracing the edge of his notebook.
My mama used to help people walk again, he said quietly. She was a physical therapist. She taught me stuff.
She said the body remembers things, even when it forgets for a while. Jonathan stared at him, the skepticism hardening in his chest. So what, you watched her do some stretches and now you think you’re a doctor? I watched her help a man walk after being in a chair for five years, Zeke said, eyes lifting.
She didn’t have machines or nurses, just her hands, her patience and faith. Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He glanced around.