A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Son," William said, his tone light but edged with disbelief, "this car costs more than everything out here put together."
The boy didn't react. "I understand, sir," he said simply. "I just want to help."
There was no arrogance in his voice, no desperation either, just certainty.
William hesitated. He looked down the empty road again: no cars, no signal, no options. Then he stepped aside with a small shrug. "Go ahead," he said. "Knock yourself out."
The boy nodded once, as if that was all he needed. He set down a small cloth pouch he had been carrying, placing it carefully on the edge of the car like it mattered. Then he leaned in toward the engine.
And for a moment, everything changed.
He didn't touch anything at first. He just looked. His eyes moved slowly, tracing lines, following wires, pausing at certain points as if he was reading a language no one else could see. His head tilted slightly, his expression tightening with focus.
William crossed his arms, watching. At first, it was amusement; then, curiosity. Because the boy wasn't guessing; he was thinking.
"Sir," the boy said after a moment, "when it stopped, did you hear a fast clicking sound?"
William blinked. "Yeah, right before it died."
"And all the lights came on at once?"
"Yes."
The boy nodded again, almost to himself. "Okay."
He reached into his pouch and pulled out a few simple tools: a piece of wire, a small connector, something that looked like it had been salvaged from another machine entirely.
William raised an eyebrow. "That's your toolkit?" he said.
The boy didn't answer. He gently pulled apart a connection deep in the engine, holding it up just enough for William to see.
"Dust and corrosion," the boy said. "It's blocking the signal. The car thinks something's wrong, so it shuts everything down."
William stared. The explanation was clear. Too clear.
Before he could respond, the boy was already working: cleaning, adjusting, splicing a small piece of wire into place with careful precision. There was no rush in his movements, but no hesitation either; every motion had purpose. The sun beat down, sweat dripped, time stretched, and then:
"Try it now, sir."
The boy stepped back.
William hesitated for a fraction of a second before walking to the driver's side. He slid into the seat, his hand resting on the ignition. This was ridiculous. He turned the key.
The engine roared to life: smooth, strong, perfect.
William froze for a second. He just sat there, listening to the sound—clean and powerful, like nothing had ever gone wrong. Then he stepped out of the car slowly, his eyes fixed on the boy.