She nodded thoughtfully, as if cataloging that information. “Cool. I do therapy too. Mine’s just louder.”
Adrian exhaled sharply. “Listen—”
“Let me dance with your son,” she interrupted, still looking only at Theo. “I’ll make him walk again.”
If arrogance had a flavor, Adrian tasted it then, metallic and immediate, because the finest medical minds in the country had failed to unlock his son’s legs, and this barefoot child thought rhythm could succeed where science had stalled.
Theo’s fingers twitched.
Adrian almost told her to move along, almost reached into his pocket to hand her a folded bill just to end the interaction, but before he could, Theo spoke, his voice small but clear, cutting through weeks of near silence.
“Dance?”
The girl’s grin widened, transforming her face. “Yeah. I’m Callie. And you look like someone who needs bass.”
Something shifted in the air, not dramatic, not cinematic, but perceptible, like the first tremor before an earthquake.
Adrian hesitated, calculating risk the way he did in boardrooms, and then, because every other approach had failed and because his son had spoken, he stepped back half an inch.
