This crazy day felt like it would never end. As if a courtroom battle and a fight with a vengeful tycoon over his own production company weren’t enough, fate, city traffic, and sheer recklessness decided to test Svyatoslav Bozhynsky’s resilience.
He hit someone. Well, not exactly “hit” on purpose, of course. But that didn’t make it any easier.
He wasn’t even speeding. Svyatoslav had always been a cautious driver. Today, he’d left early, just in case something unexpected came up. He couldn’t afford to be late for a court hearing that would decide his fate as a businessman, the owner of one of the country’s most prestigious production companies, and a renowned producer.
Bozhynsky was driving through downtown, thinking about grabbing a quick bite at his favorite spot since he had plenty of time. He was just turning into a parking lot when someone—or something—up above decided to intervene. He didn’t even realize what had happened when something slammed against the hood of his car with a dull thud. He slammed on the brakes, thankful there was no one behind him.
For a few seconds, he sat frozen, staring through the windshield, unable to process what had just occurred. The road ahead was clear, aside from the cars parked nearby. But then a head popped up in front of the hood, wearing a knitted yellow hat (in the middle of summer, no less!), and Svyatoslav felt a chill run down his spine.
Swallowing hard, he scrambled out of the car, glancing around in hopes that his mishap hadn’t drawn too much attention. The last thing he needed, on top of the court case, was a reason to end up at the police station. If that happened, they’d strip him of everything and throw him behind bars—no lawyer could save him then.
— What the hell are you doing? — he shouted, rushing to the front of the car where the head had appeared. — Watch where you’re going, you idiot!
— Sorry, — mumbled the unfortunate soul, struggling to stand. — It was an accident.
Svyatoslav gave his latest disaster a critical once-over. Dressed in baggy, worn-out jeans, a faded plaid shirt, and that blasted bright yellow hat that screamed “stop” like a traffic light, this oddball looked like one of the homeless kids he often saw wandering the city streets. On their feet were pristine white sneakers with thick soles, a stark contrast to the rest of their shabby appearance. The kid looked about eighteen, tops. Practically a child compared to him.
— Of course it was an accident! — Bozhynsky snapped irritably, mentally calculating what to do with this mess. — Maybe try looking around once in a while so you don’t barrel into things.
He glanced around again—life in the city buzzed on, and no one seemed to notice the minor incident. He could just hop back in his car and get out of here before the kid came to their senses and started demanding something. Leaning on the hood, the victim was trying to stand. Perfect, arms and legs intact, they’d live. Scrapes heal fast on kids like this.
Svyatoslav was about to turn around and drive off when the kid let out a yelp about a broken leg and collapsed onto the asphalt.
Oh, come on! This was the last thing he needed!
— Just my luck! — he muttered, quickly checking his watch to confirm he had a little time, and, unable to think of a better solution, hoisted the frightened kid up by the shoulders and shoved them into his car.
— Hey, what are you doing? Let me go right now! — the kid screeched loud enough for the whole street to hear as Bozhynsky tried to stuff them into the back seat. — Help! They’re taking me for organs!
— Quiet down! — he snapped, shaking the kid a little and glancing around, growing increasingly nervous.
He cursed himself for this damned sense of decency, but his conscience wouldn’t let him abandon someone in the middle of the street, even if they were a stray.
— Let me go! — the kid kept yelling, trying to poke their head out of the car again. — Hey, they’re gonna kill me!
Bozhynsky didn’t have time to react before sharp teeth sank painfully into his arm.
— You little pest! — he roared, grabbing the kid by the collar and giving them a good shake to finally look them in the face. — I’m already late because of you.
— You’re the pest, mister! — the troublemaker shot back, glaring at him with piercing green eyes that seemed to cut right through him, peering into his very soul. — Where are you dragging me? First, you run me over, and now you’re trying to kidnap me, huh?
— I’m taking you to the hospital, — Bozhynsky said, shaking his head to clear the strange daze. — If your leg’s broken, they’ll put a cast on it. And it wouldn’t hurt to check your head while we’re at it—you’re way too jumpy.
— Oh, so you’re playing the good guy now, huh, old man? — the kid sneered, finally stopping their struggle.
— Something like that, — Svyatoslav huffed, holding onto the car door, no longer sure why he was even bothering with this street urchin. — I don’t want to be responsible if you keel over in the middle of the street because of me.
The kid smirked and dramatically swung their legs into the car, settling in comfortably and crossing their arms over their chest as if they were doing Bozhynsky a favor. The nerve of this one! Irritated, he clicked his tongue but held back from commenting on the brazen attitude. He needed to get this kid checked out and get on with his day.
Svyatoslav was just about to close the door when the kid jolted upright and barked in a commanding tone:
— Hey, old man, grab my board! It’s right there, under the car next to us.
Surprised, the producer turned and, sure enough, spotted a small pink skateboard a little ways off. Seriously? His bewilderment must have been obvious because the kid quickly added:
— What? Pink is totally in this season, FYI.
Clicking his tongue again, Bozhynsky picked up the odd contraption and tossed it into the back seat next to the kid.
They made it to a private clinic surprisingly fast. For once, fate showed some mercy by sparing him from traffic jams. The street kid, lips pursed, stayed silent, eyeing the car’s interior from under their brow. Svyatoslav couldn’t help but smirk. The kid had probably never seen a car like this, let alone ridden in one.
Glancing at the kid through the rearview mirror, he felt an odd urge to ask how this troublemaker ended up in the middle of the road. A strange curiosity sparked in him to understand how someone could live so recklessly and aimlessly. At their age, he’d been completely different. Right after high school, Bozhynsky knew he’d be successful and did everything to make it happen, dressing the part too. He’d never allowed himself to look like some punk off the streets. And this one? A walking disaster with a vagabond lifestyle and… a pink skateboard. What would become of them? Probably drinking under a bridge somewhere, begging for spare change.
— It’s not nice to judge someone just by their clothes, — the kid muttered, as if reading his thoughts.
— It’s not nice to be loafing around at your age, — Svyatoslav shot back with a biting remark as he pulled into the hospital parking lot.
The kid just scoffed and lunged for the door, fumbling with it in an attempt to get out. Svyatoslav smirked again and deliberately unlocked the car. The door swung open, and the kid tumbled out onto the ground.
— Ow! Damn it! — the kid yelped. — I can’t stand on my leg now! This is your fault, old man!
Bozhynsky got out of the car and saw the kid sprawled on the ground. Why was this happening to him? He had no choice but to haul them up himself. At least there was one upside—they were scrawny and light, so it wasn’t much effort. The kid huffed, grimaced, and muttered under their breath but didn’t say another word.
At the hospital, Svyatoslav handed the troublemaker over to a familiar doctor, slipped some cash to ensure they’d be well taken care of, and hurried off to court, already horribly late. His lawyer had called at least ten times.
As he left the hospital, he caught himself thinking again about how strange this kid was. Here he was, a producer in a suit, sweating through his shirt, and this kid was still wearing that ridiculous hat…
Bozhynsky won the court case. One less problem to deal with. For a moment, he forgot he’d been the cause of a hit-and-run incident. But then, right outside the courthouse, in full view of the press, his lawyer’s wife—who also happened to be a key star at his production company and his former fling—went into labor (yes, it’s a bizarre and absurd story). He had no choice but to head back to a medical facility, this time to the maternity ward.
— A penny board, seriously? — Dmitry, the lawyer, remarked in surprise as they got into the car.
— Svyatoslav must’ve decided to get our little girl a gift she can grow into, — Maria teased between contractions.
— Don’t ask. Just don’t ask, — Svyatoslav waved them off, his eyes catching that blasted board in the back seat. He told himself he’d have to return it to its owner since he’d be near the clinic where he’d dropped the kid off anyway.
Bozhynsky felt like a complete fool walking into the hospital with that ridiculous pink skateboard tucked under his arm. Once again, he marveled at how irresponsible and clueless someone had to be to ride around on such a quirky contraption at a nearly grown age, dressed in equally quirky clothes, instead of working or hanging out with friends…
— Good evening, Mr. Bozhynsky! — the young woman at the reception desk greeted him warmly as she spotted him. — Do you have an appointment?
— Where’s the kid? — he asked without pleasantries, scanning the area for the doctor he’d left the kid with.
— Which kid? — the staff member asked, raising an eyebrow and eyeing the board in Svyatoslav’s hands suspiciously.
— The one I brought in earlier today. Think they’ve got a broken leg, — he explained, glancing at his watch, hoping this absurd day would end soon. — You haven’t discharged them yet, have you? I wanted to return this, — he nodded toward the skateboard.
— Oh, I see, — the woman nodded with understanding. — Not yet. Besides the fracture, there’s a mild concussion and some dizziness, so the doctor decided to keep them overnight.
— Fine, — he said, turning to head toward the wards. — Which room are they in?
— Room sixteen, — the receptionist called out, leaning over the counter. As Bozhynsky strode confidently down the hallway, she shouted after him: — Mr. Bozhynsky, just so you know… it’s not a boy.
He froze for a moment, turned around, and raised a surprised eyebrow as the receptionist clarified:
— It’s a girl.