Micah stepped closer, the cold stone beneath his bare feet no match for the warmth of the patio heaters or the heat of a hundred curious stares.
Preston watched him with an amused, almost theatrical patience, one eyebrow raised as if indulging a street magician. Around the table, phones lifted. Glasses paused midway to lips. Even the servers slowed, sensing that something unusual was about to happen.
Micah stopped beside Preston’s wheelchair. Up close, he could see the faint strain around the older man’s eyes—the kind that came from living with pain for a very long time.
“May I touch your leg?” Micah asked.
The laughter softened. Preston gave a dismissive wave. “Go ahead. I doubt you’ll make it any worse.”
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