Malik Carter, age 14.
Residence: Pine Hollow, Mississippi.
No formal training, no certifications, no reason to be able to do what he had done.
William flipped through the pages, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then he stopped.
A photograph: Malik, standing outside a small trailer, grease on his hands, looking directly at the camera with an expression that wasn't trying to impress anyone.
William leaned back, a slow breath leaving his chest. Because the more he learned, the less it made sense. And the more it didn't make sense, the more he needed to see it for himself again.
The sun sat high and merciless over Pine Hollow, turning the dirt road into a pale ribbon of heat and dust. The air shimmered just above the ground, bending the horizon into something almost unreal.
And then, just as suddenly as the day before, the Ferrari came back: not slowly, not cautiously—it rolled into view like it belonged there, the red paint catching the light, drawing eyes from every direction.
Curtains shifted again. Screen doors creaked open. People stepped out onto porches, shading their eyes, because nothing like that ever came back. Not twice.
Malik stood outside the trailer, a small wrench in his hand, tightening a loose bolt on an old lawnmower. The sound of the engine cut through the quiet before he even looked up. He froze for a second; he thought he imagined it. Then he saw it: the same car, the same man. Only this time, the engine was running—smooth, perfect.
William Harrington stepped out slowly, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He wasn't wearing the same crisp shirt from yesterday: no jacket, no tie, just a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled up—still out of place, but less distant.
Malik didn't move. He watched as the man walked toward him, boots pressing into the same dust that had swallowed his Ferrari just a day ago.
"I was hoping I'd find you here," William said.
Malik set the wrench down on the ground. "You did," he said.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt different now: less like a problem to solve, more like something waiting to be understood.
William glanced around, taking in the trailer, the scattered tools, the broken mower pieces laid out in careful order. "You fixed that, too?" he asked, nodding toward the mower.
"Almost," Malik said. "Carburetor's clogged."
William nodded slowly, like that meant something to him, even if it didn't. "I've been thinking about yesterday," he said.
Malik didn't answer.
"I don't understand it," William continued. "You fixed a car most mechanics wouldn't touch, with parts that shouldn't have worked."
Malik shrugged slightly. "They worked."
"That's not an explanation."
"It's the truth."