“I pop, dropped and locked it, father,” the boy said, anxiously.
“What did you say, my son?” the father asked, turning away from his work. His expression had changed and it scared the boy. What had once been determination had turned into a mask of grim anger.
“I…I pop, dropped… and locked it…Did I do something wrong?”
His father got down to one knee and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, staring straight into the boy’s eyes. “You dropped it… before you locked it? Am I hearing you correctly?”
“I….I…,” the boy stammered.
“Answer me!” the father demanded.
“Yes,” the boy gulped.
The father looked down at the boy’s knees. They seemed fine, unlike the awful bodily contortions and the screaming expressions of many foolhardy men who had attempted to drop it before they locked it. These were memories that pained the father to recall.
“And you feel fine? No problem or hurt in your legs, my son?”
The boy smiled slightly. “Yes, father. I feel great.”
The father nodded and smiled back. What he’d always guessed might now be a reality.
This boy might be the one to save us all.