a.k Adrian Cole had never been late to anything in his life.
He stood beside his dead luxury sedan on a downtown street, jaw tight, checking his Rolex for the fourth time in two minutes. Forty minutes to the most important investor meeting of the year. Forty minutes, and his hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar car wouldn’t start.
“Come on,” he muttered, yanking the door open and jabbing the ignition again. Nothing.
He slammed it shut. Hard.
A man in a passing delivery uniform glanced over. Adrian shot him a look that said keep walking.
His assistant wasn’t picking up. The tow company quoted him forty-five minutes minimum. He typed three different things into his phone and deleted all of them. He was used to problems that money could dissolve instantly. This one wasn’t cooperating.
“I can fix it.”
Adrian turned slowly.
The boy standing on the curb looked about fourteen. His jeans were two sizes too big, cinched with a piece of rope. His hoodie had a tear across the left shoulder. His sneakers were so worn the rubber sole had peeled back at the toe like a curling leaf.
But his eyes — calm, direct — didn’t match the rest of him.
“I can fix your car,” the boy said again. “But you have to feed me.”
Adrian stared.
The silence stretched long enough to be insulting.
“Feed you,” Adrian repeated flatly.
“Yes sir.”
“Kid.” Adrian exhaled through his nose. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I know what’s wrong with it.” The boy nodded at the hood. “Just by the sound it was making. Battery connection, probably. Maybe corrosion.”
“You heard it die from across the street.”
“I was listening.”
Adrian looked at his watch again. He looked at the boy again. He made a sound between a laugh and a sigh.
“Fine,” he said. “If you fix it, I’ll feed you. Hell, I’ll give you a million bucks.”
He said it the way men like him said things they didn’t mean — with a wave of the hand, a smirk already forming. A joke in the shape of a promise.
The boy nodded once. “Open the hood.”
