William stopped. "No?"
"No," Malik said firmly. "Not like that."
William studied him. "Then how?"
Malik swallowed, his voice dropping slightly. "Is she going to be okay?" he asked.
That was it. Not the money, not the school, not the future—just that.
William held his gaze, and for the first time since they had met, there was no strategy in his answer, no angle, just truth: "She has a chance," he said. "But she needs treatment, and she needs it now."
Malik looked down. His hands trembled slightly: not from fear, but from the weight of it. Because now it wasn't about pride anymore; it wasn't about principles. It was about her.
"If I say yes..." Malik started.
William didn't interrupt.
"You help her?" Malik finished.
"Yes."
"No strings."
William paused, just long enough to matter. "Only one," he said.
Malik's chest tightened. "There it is," he said.
William shook his head. "Not like you think."
Malik waited.
"You don't quit," William said. "Not on yourself."
The words landed softly, but they stayed.
Malik looked at the paper again, then at the floor, then at his hands: grease-stained, worn, capable, and suddenly not enough. He closed his eyes for a second, because this was it—the moment, the one that changes everything. And he hated it, because no matter what he chose, something would be lost.
He thought about the shed, the tools, the quiet, the way things made sense there. He thought about Tyler's voice, about the laughter, about the doubt. He thought about his mom in that hospital bed, struggling to breathe.
And then he made a decision.
But even as he did, a part of him wasn't ready. Not fully. Because trust wasn't something you could build in a hallway—not in one conversation, not in one moment. And Malik Carter knew that better than anyone.
Which meant the real question wasn't just whether he would say yes; it was whether he could live with what came after. Because once you step forward, you don't go back the same.