He understood something the others in the room could not see.
This wasn’t about proving a diagnosis correct.
This was about a man trying to find his father and son again.
“Mr. Harrington,” Raymond said quietly. “May I ride with you?”
Preston nearly choked.
“A child in a vehicle like this? The insurance implications alone are—”
Ted turned slowly.
His eyes were dangerous.
“This is my car. My decision. The boy diagnosed what your entire team couldn’t find in 18 months.”
He looked at Raymond.
“He rides with me.”
The Ferrari’s door opened with a sound like a whispered promise.
Ted slid into the driver’s seat.
Leather worn soft by six decades of use.
His father had sat here.
His son had sat here.
Now a 13-year-old stranger sat in the passenger seat.
A boy who had heard what nobody else could hear.
Ted turned the key.
The V12 engine sang to life.
Twelve cylinders breathing in harmony.
For the first time in 18 months, the sound didn’t fill him with dread.
They pulled out of the service bay into San Francisco sunlight.
The crowd watched them disappear around the corner.
Nobody spoke.
The road Ted chose was deliberate.
Every road that had betrayed him before.
Every hill where the engine had stumbled.
Every intersection where he had held his breath waiting for failure.
Pacific Heights.
Steep streets that exposed any hesitation.
The Ferrari climbed without complaint.
“How did you learn all this?” Ted asked, eyes fixed on the road. “You’re 13 years old.”
Raymond considered the question.
“Mr. Giuseppe says age doesn’t matter. Attention matters. He says most people stop paying attention when they grow up. They start trusting machines instead of themselves.”
Ted nodded slowly.
“He sounds like a wise man.”
“He’s the wisest person I know.”
Raymond paused.
“Except maybe my mama.”
They drove in silence for a while.
Through traffic.
Up hills.
Down valleys.
The engine never faltered.
Never hesitated.
Never stumbled.
Twenty minutes into the drive, they reached the intersection at Pacific Heights where the car had stalled three times the previous year.
Ted’s hands tightened on the wheel.
His jaw clenched.
The Ferrari climbed smoothly.
Powerfully.
Perfectly.
Ted’s grip relaxed.
His breath came easier.
At a red light near the top, his hands began to shake.
Not from fear this time.
From something else entirely.
“My father taught me to drive in this car.”
His voice cracked.
“Summer of 1973. I was 16. He sat right where you’re sitting now.”
Raymond listened.