He just looked at Miles with calm, stubborn kindness.
Miles stared back, exhausted by his own rage, sick of the way people’s pity sounded like lies.
And then, because he was desperate and bitter and tired of feeling powerless, he said something he didn’t mean.
Or maybe he meant it more than he wanted to admit.
The Deal
“Fine,” Miles said, leaning forward slightly. “Let’s make a deal.”
Owen blinked.
Miles swallowed, then forced the words out like a dare.
“If you can help me—if you can do what all those experts couldn’t—then I’ll give you half my fortune. I’ll give your family a life you don’t even have words for yet. I’ll sign it. I’ll make it real.”
His voice shook at the end, and he hated that it sounded like hope.
Then his face hardened again.
“But if you can’t,” Miles added, “leave me alone.”
For a second, the boy just stood there, as if he was deciding whether Miles was serious.
Owen’s expression didn’t turn frightened.
It turned determined.
He walked right up to the chair and lowered himself onto the grass.
Then, without asking permission, he placed his small hand on Miles’ knee.
His palm was warm. Slightly dirty from the yard.
Miles’ first instinct was to pull away.
To swat the hand off and shout.
But something about the boy’s face stopped him.
Owen looked like he was about to do something important, something sacred in the way children believe in things without needing proof.
“Can I pray for you?” Owen asked softly.
Miles’ throat tightened.
He wanted to laugh. He wanted to say no.
Instead, he heard himself answer like a man who’d run out of options.
“Do what you want,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
A Prayer That Sounded Like a Conversation
Owen squeezed his eyes shut and spoke in a voice that wasn’t rehearsed or fancy.
It was the voice of a child talking to someone he trusted.
“God,” Owen whispered, “this is Mister Miles. He’s really sad. He has a lot of stuff, but he misses walking. People told him it can’t happen, but You made people, so You can do things nobody else can.”
Owen paused, as if listening for a response only he could hear.
“Please give him a little strength,” he said. “Even a little. So he can stand. So he can come outside without feeling bad. And maybe one day he can kick a soccer ball with me. Amen.”
It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds.
Miles waited for the familiar emptiness afterward.
The same silence.
The same disappointment.
Then something changed.
The Heat
It began as warmth where Owen’s hand rested.
Not imagination-warm.
Real warmth, spreading like a small pulse.
Miles’ breath caught.
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