No one at the gala moved.

The man looked down at his own leg like it belonged to someone else.

His hand shook so badly the wine inside his glass trembled against the rim.

The boy stayed on his knees, calm, almost sad.

“Three,” he said softly.

The man gasped.

A sharp pulse of feeling ran through his leg, so sudden it stole the arrogance from his face.

“What is this?” he asked.

The boy looked into his eyes.

“My mother said you were never broken.”

The man froze.

Those words hit harder than the feeling in his leg.

“What mother?”

The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper, worn soft from being carried too long.

The man opened it with trembling hands.

It was a medical note.

His name was on it.

And so was a warning.

Paralysis induced by repeated dosage.

His breath caught.

The woman beside him went pale.

His wife.

The boy’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“My mother worked in your house. She said someone kept giving you medicine to make sure you never stood up again.”

The man looked at the paper, then at the child’s face.

“Where is your mother?” he whispered.

The boy’s lips trembled for the first time.

“She disappeared after she tried to tell you.”

The crowd stood frozen.

The man’s eyes filled with tears.

“What was her name?”

The boy swallowed hard.

“Anna.”

The wine glass slipped from the man’s hand and shattered on the stone floor.

Because Anna was not just a nurse.

Anna was the woman he had once loved.

And the boy kneeling beside his wheelchair had her eyes.