The old man’s eyes fluttered. “I… fell.”
Frede unscrewed his water bottle and gently lifted the man’s head just enough. “Small sips.”
A few swallows, a cough, then a raspy voice. “Thank you, boys. Name’s Bernard. I’ve made a real mess of things.”
“What happened?” Frede asked.
“Dizzy spell on the way home from the store. Next thing I knew I was down here.” Bernard tried to sit up and winced hard. “Been here… maybe an hour. Maybe longer.”
“We’re calling an ambulance,” Keaton said.
“No—no ambulance.” Bernard waved a frail hand. “Just help me stand. I’ll manage.”
He reached for the wooden cane that had rolled away. Frede picked it up and pressed it into his palm.
“We’re not leaving you out here,” Keaton said. “We’ll walk you home.”
Bernard protested, but it was weak. Frede slipped an arm under one elbow, Keaton took the other, and together they got him upright. He weighed almost nothing.
Ten minutes down a narrow dirt track, they stopped in front of a trailer that looked one storm away from folding in on itself—rust streaks, cardboard windows, roof patched with tarp and hope.
“This is home,” Bernard mumbled, cheeks red. He fumbled for his wallet, opened it—empty—and came back with a single red apple. “It’s all I’ve got right now.”
Neither boy moved to take it.
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