In the middle of the long marble driveway—where rainwater had gathered into a wide, muddy puddle—sat Oliver.
His small pink forearm crutches lay discarded nearby, one of them half-submerged in brown water like a fallen toy soldier.
His silk pajamas were soaked and streaked with mud.
His blond hair was plastered to his forehead.
But Oliver was not crying.
Oliver was laughing.
It was loud. Unrestrained. Alive.
Jonathan Hale froze at the front door of his estate, his breath catching painfully in his throat.
For a split second, his mind refused to process what his eyes were seeing.
Beside Oliver knelt another child.
A boy, maybe eight years old. Thin. Small for his age. His oversized gray hoodie was soaked through, clinging to his narrow shoulders. His pants were rolled up unevenly, legs streaked with mud and old bruises. One arm was carefully braced behind Oliver’s back, steadying him.
The boy looked up calmly as Jonathan rushed toward them.
“What are you doing with my son?” Jonathan shouted, fear and anger colliding in his voice.
The boy didn’t flinch.
“He’s okay, sir,” he said evenly. “We’re just playing.”
“Playing?” Jonathan stepped straight into the puddle without hesitation, expensive shoes sinking into the mud. “He can’t play like this. He needs support. He could get hurt.”
Oliver looked up at his father, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling.
“Daddy,” he said breathlessly, “I didn’t fall.”
Jonathan stared at him. “What?”
“I didn’t fall,” Oliver repeated. “Eli helped me.”
The boy nodded once. “He wanted to try.”
Jonathan’s anger wavered, replaced by confusion. “Try what?”
Eli shrugged slightly. “Being normal.”
