The doctor nodded slowly. "We'll do what we can," he said. But the way he said it didn't feel like a promise.
Malik sat back down. The chair felt harder now, colder. He stared at the floor, then at his hands: still stained with grease, still capable, but useless here. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the card: William Harrington.
The name stared back at him: clean, sharp, different.
Malik swallowed, because for the first time, he thought about it: not the money, not the car—the man. What he could do. What he represented.
Malik tightened his grip on the card, then loosened it again, because something inside him resisted. Hard.
He remembered his mother's words: "Helping ain't business." He remembered his own voice saying no, standing there on that road like it was simple, like it didn't cost anything. But now... now it did.
Malik leaned back, closing his eyes. The hospital lights pressed through even when they were shut. His chest felt tight. Not from fear—from something else: a choice. And he hated it.
Outside, rain began to fall: soft at first, then heavier, washing the dust from the roads, turning the ground dark and slick under the streetlights. A car pulled into the hospital parking lot: black, clean, out of place.
William Harrington stepped out, closing the door behind him as he looked up at the building. He didn't hesitate, didn't check his phone, didn't wait. He walked straight toward the entrance.
Because somewhere inside, a boy who had refused everything was about to face something he couldn't refuse. And William Harrington already knew this wasn't about fixing a car anymore. This was about something much harder: something no one could solve in eight minutes, and something that would force Malik Carter to decide who he really was.
The hospital hallway stretched long and empty under harsh white lights, the kind that made everything look colder than it really was. Malik sat alone: same chair, same position, hands locked together, the card still in his pocket.
Time had lost its meaning: minutes felt like hours; hours felt like nothing at all. Every time footsteps echoed down the hall, his head lifted slightly, hope flickering for just a second before settling back into silence again.
Then footsteps stopped in front of him: not rushed, not hesitant—steady.
Malik looked up, and there he was. William Harrington stood a few feet away, his presence cutting through the sterile quiet like something that didn't belong, but wasn't leaving either. No Ferrari, no polished image—just a man.
Malik blinked once, surprised. "You followed me?" he asked, his voice low.
William shook his head slightly. "I looked for you," he said.
Malik didn't respond right away, because part of him already knew why. "Why?" he asked anyway.
William glanced down the hallway toward the rooms, then back at Malik. "Because something's wrong," he said. Not a question—a statement.
Malik exhaled slowly. "My mom," he said.
William nodded once, like he expected that. "What happened?"
"She got sick," Malik said. "Worse than before."
The words felt small, too small for what they meant. William studied him carefully: not the way people in Pine Hollow looked at him—not with curiosity, not with doubt—with attention. Real attention.
"She's being treated?" William asked.