He stepped out of the car, towering over the boy. “This car costs more than anything you’ve ever seen. I won’t let you near it.”
“Then wait,” the boy said, gesturing to the traffic. “It’ll take hours.”
Ricardo hesitated. The crowd was growing.
“My father works there,” the boy added, pointing to a small auto shop nearby. “We fix cars. Let me look.”
Ricardo scoffed. “That shack? This isn’t some old sedan.”
Just then, three men approached—Ricardo’s business associates.
“What happened?” one of them, Marcos Ibarra, asked, amused.
“The car broke down,” Ricardo said bitterly.
“And the kid?”
“He claims he can fix it.”
They burst out laughing.
“I’d pay to see that,” Marcos said, filming.
“If I fix it,” the boy said evenly, “how much will you pay?”
Ricardo raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”
“Work has value.”
“Fine,” Ricardo said. “Fix it and I’ll give you five thousand dollars.”
“Eight thousand,” the boy replied.
“For a child?”
“For the work—and the spectacle.”
Ricardo smirked. “Deal. But if you fail, you wash my car for a month.”
The boy extended his hand. “Deal.”
He returned moments later with a toolbox nearly as big as he was and opened the hood with confidence that silenced the laughter.
His hands moved fast and precise—disconnecting, testing, adjusting.
“Water pump’s locked,” he said. “Just like I said.”
Ricardo stepped closer, stunned.
“Diagnosis is easy,” Ricardo muttered.
“Watch,” the boy replied.
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