“Baby,” she said slowly. “Tell me the truth right now. Did you throw something at some men in the alley last night?” Skye’s stomach dropped. “How did you—” “How did I know?” Evelyn’s voice escalated sharply. “Child, you’re on the news! Every station! Every channel! My phone’s been ringing non-stop for the past hour!” She turned her phone around. The screen displayed a news report. The headline blared: “Nine-year-old girl saves billionaire from brutal attack.” And there, in grainy, shaky footage someone had filmed from their window, was Skye. Standing at her window. Arm pulled back. Throwing.
“Oh no,” Skye whispered. “Oh no is right.” Evelyn sank down hard onto the couch. “Baby, do you have any idea what you’ve done?” “I saved someone’s life,” Skye said quietly. “You put yourself in danger!” Evelyn’s voice was raw with fear. “Those men could’ve come back! They could’ve hurt you! They could’ve—” She cut herself off, covering her face with her hands. Skye walked over and climbed onto the couch next to her grandmother. “I’m okay, Grandma. I promise. They didn’t even see me.” “That don’t matter.” Evelyn pulled her into a fierce hug, holding her tightly. “That don’t matter at all.” They sat like that for a long time, just holding each other. The morning light streamed through the window. The sounds of the neighborhood slowly waking up filtered in from outside.
Then, Evelyn’s phone rang again. She looked at the screen and frowned. “It’s a number I don’t know.” “Don’t answer it,” Skye said. But Evelyn answered anyway. “Hello?” A pause. Her eyes widened. “Yes, this is her grandmother. Who’s asking?” Another pause. “Channel 7 News? No, we don’t want to do no interview. No, she ain’t available. No, you cannot come to our building. Goodbye!” She hung up the phone with a decisive click.
The phone immediately rang again. This time it was Channel 4. Then Channel 2. Then some local radio station. Then a podcast host. Then a newspaper reporter. By 9 a.m., there were news vans parked solid on their street. Skye peeked out the window and saw them. Three massive vans. Reporters holding microphones. Cameramen hoisting huge cameras. All of them staring expectantly up at their building. “We can’t go outside,” Evelyn stated firmly. “Not today. Maybe not for a few days.” “What about school?” “You’re staying home.” “Grandma—” “I said you’re staying home.” Evelyn’s voice was sharp. Then, it softened. “Please, baby. Just for now. Until this dies down.”
But it didn’t die down. By noon, the story had gone completely national. CNN picked it up. Fox News. MSNBC. Twitter was absolutely exploding with the hashtag #ballgirl. Someone had already created memes. TikTok videos. Reaction clips. Skye sat on the couch, watching her private life get turned into public entertainment, and felt a wave of nausea wash over her. “I just wanted to help,” she said quietly. Evelyn sat beside her, her arm around Skye’s shoulders. “I know, baby. I know.”
At 2:37 p.m., there was a knock on the door. Evelyn jumped up, agitated. “If that’s another reporter, I swear…” But when she looked through the peephole, she froze. “It’s the police,” she whispered to Skye. “Two officers.” She opened the door, but kept the heavy chain lock secured. “Can I help you?” “Mrs. Boone,” the kind-eyed officer from the night before said. “We need to speak with Skye. Just for a few minutes. We have some follow-up questions.” Evelyn hesitated for a long moment, then slowly slid the chain lock off and let them in.
The officers sat across from Skye in the tiny living room. They asked her to recount everything she had witnessed. Every single detail. They took meticulous notes. Recorded her statement officially. “The three men got away,” the female officer said. “But we’re working on identifying them. Your ball had DNA evidence—blood and skin cells. We should have results soon.” “When do I get my ball back?” Skye asked. The officers exchanged a look. “That ball is evidence in an attempted murder case,” the male officer said gently. “It might be a while.” Skye’s throat tightened painfully. “But it’s mine. It’s the only one I have.” “We’ll get it back to you as soon as we can, I promise,” he reassured her. After they left, Evelyn made Skye hot chocolate and grilled cheese—her ultimate comfort meal. They sat together on the couch, curtains drawn, TV off, simply existing in the quiet apartment.
“Grandma,” Skye said after a long silence. “Yeah, baby.” “Do you think he’ll remember me? The man I saved.” Evelyn looked at her granddaughter. This tiny girl who had just performed an act of courage most adults wouldn’t dare attempt. “Baby,” she said softly. “I don’t think that man’s ever gonna forget you.”
And across town, in a private hospital room with a stunning view of the city skyline, Gavin Parker lay in bed, recovering from a broken nose, several cracked ribs, and a line of stitches across his forehead. His assistant had just shown him the news coverage. Shown him the grainy footage of the little girl at the window. And told him her name. Skye.
Gavin stared at the screen, at this nine-year-old child who had saved his life with nothing more than a rubber ball and a huge reservoir of courage. “Find out where she lives,” he instructed his assistant quietly. “Sir, the family isn’t doing interviews.” “I don’t want an interview,” Gavin interrupted, his voice firm. “I want to thank her. In person.” His assistant hesitated. “Sir, the media attention is intense. If you show up at their home—” “Then we’ll deal with it,” Gavin said resolutely. “That little girl saved my life. The least I can do is look her in the eye and say thank you.” He picked up his phone—the cracked screen still worked—and stared at the news article about Skye. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Three days passed before Gavin Parker felt strong enough to be released from the hospital. His face was still a mess—one eye swollen half-shut, stitches running across his forehead like train tracks, his jaw bruised an ugly mix of purple and yellow. His ribs were wrapped so tightly he could barely take a shallow breath. Every step he took was excruciating. Every breath was a stark reminder of how close he had come to dying in that alley. But he couldn’t care less about the pain. His mind was set on finding the girl who had saved him.
His assistant, Marcus, a visibly nervous guy in his thirties who had worked for Gavin for five years, drove him to the South Side that Thursday afternoon. The black Mercedes looked glaringly out of place on these worn streets. Too shiny. Too expensive. People stared openly as it rolled past. “Sir, are you absolutely sure about this?” Marcus asked for the tenth time. “The family hasn’t responded to any of our calls. Maybe they want privacy.” “I’m sure,” Gavin said, his gaze fixed out the window at the neighborhood. Cracked sidewalks. Buildings with peeling paint. Corner stores with iron bars over the windows. He had driven past this area a thousand times on his way to meetings, but he had never truly seen it. Never cared. Now, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Marcus pulled up in front of a tired, worn brick building. Four stories high. The fire escape hung crookedly. A small group of teenagers lounging on the stoop stopped talking and watched them with openly suspicious eyes. “That’s the building,” Marcus said, checking his phone. “Apartment 3C.” Gavin got out slowly, every movement making his ribs scream in protest. The teenagers stood up immediately. “You lost, man?” one of them asked. Not threateningly. Just curious. “No,” Gavin said. “I’m looking for someone. A girl named Skye.” The teenagers exchanged quick, knowing glances. “You a cop?” another one asked. “No. I’m…” Gavin paused. “I’m the guy she saved.”
Their demeanor shifted instantly. Eyes went wide. “Wait, you’re the billionaire?” the first kid said. “The one from the news?” Gavin nodded. “Yo, that’s crazy.” They crowded around him now, all talking at once. “She really threw that ball from up there? That’s like superhero stuff!” “You here to give her money or something?” “I’m here to say thank you,” Gavin said simply. One of the girls pointed toward the door. “Third floor. But her grandma don’t like strangers. You better have a good reason for knocking.”
Gavin began to climb the stairs, each step sending a jolt of pain shooting through his chest. The hallway smelled of cooking spices and old, damp carpet. Someone’s TV was blaring too loud. A baby was crying somewhere behind a closed door. He found apartment 3C and knocked. Gently. Respectfully. Nothing. He knocked again. “Mrs. Boone. My name is Gavin Parker. I just want to talk. Please.”
The door opened, but only a crack. A heavy chain lock held it firmly in place. An older woman’s face appeared in the gap—dark skin, piercing eyes, gray hair pulled back in a neat bun. She scrutinized him from head to toe, clearly debating whether to slam the door in his face. “I know who you are,” Evelyn said, her voice flat. “Saw your face on every channel for three days straight.” “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to just show up like this, but—” “But you’re rich and you’re used to getting what you want,” she finished for him. “Even when people say no.” Gavin flinched. “That’s not… I’m not here to cause problems. I just want to thank Skye. Face to face. She saved my life.”
Evelyn stared at him for a long moment. “You know how many reporters knocked on this door? How many phone calls we got? My grandbaby can’t even go outside without cameras in her face.” “I know,” Gavin said quietly. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t ask for any of that. But I still owe her my life.” Behind Evelyn, a small voice called out, “Who is it, Grandma?” Evelyn glanced back, then sighed. She closed the door entirely. For a second, Gavin feared she was sending him packing. Then, he heard the chain lock sliding. The door opened fully. “Five minutes,” Evelyn said, her expression stern. “That’s all you get.”
Gavin stepped inside. The apartment was tiny—smaller than his walk-in closet—but it was impeccably clean. Neat. Family photos covered every wall. A cross hung prominently above the TV. The comforting smell of something baking wafted in from the kitchen. And there, sitting on a worn couch patched with duct tape, was Skye. She looked even smaller in person. Her hair was freshly braided now. She wore an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Her feet didn’t even graze the floor when she sat. But her eyes? They were the same eyes from the alley. Sharp. Watching. Missing absolutely nothing.
“Hi,” Gavin said softly, remaining near the door. “I’m Gavin.” “I know who you are,” Skye replied. “You’re all over the news.” “So are you.” She looked down at her hands. “I didn’t want to be.” Gavin took a cautious step closer. “Can I sit?” Skye glanced at her grandmother, who gave a small nod. Gavin lowered himself carefully into a chair across from the couch, wincing as his ribs protested. “Does it hurt?” Skye asked. “Yeah,” he admitted. “But I’m alive to feel it. Because of you.”
Silence filled the small room. Evelyn stood by the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, observing their every move. “I came here to say thank you,” Gavin continued. “And to ask if there’s anything I can do. Anything you need. Your family. I owe you my life, Skye.” “You don’t owe me nothing,” Skye said quickly, shaking her head. “I just did what anybody should have done.” “But nobody else did,” Gavin countered gently. “They heard. They saw. But you were the only one who acted.” He leaned forward. “How old are you?” “Nine.” “Nine years old,” he repeated, shaking his head slowly. “And you have more courage than anyone I’ve ever met.” Skye shifted uncomfortably. “I just threw a ball.” “You threw it from three stories up. In the dark. And hit your target perfectly.” Gavin smiled, despite the pain in his split lip. “That’s not luck. That’s skill.”
For the first time, Skye’s face softened a little. She almost smiled. “I practice a lot.” “Where?” “Behind the building. There’s a wall. I draw targets and throw at them every day after school.” Gavin pulled out his phone, the one with the cracked screen, and opened his notes app. “What if you had a real place to practice? With real equipment. Coaches. A team.”
Evelyn stepped forward immediately. “Hold on now. We don’t need your charity.” “It’s not charity,” Gavin interrupted gently. “It’s a thank you. And an investment.” He looked at Skye. “You have a gift. A real one. And gifts like that shouldn’t be wasted throwing at brick walls.” Skye looked at her grandmother, then back at Gavin. “What kind of place?” “A field,” Gavin said. “A real one. With bases and a pitcher’s mound and bright lights so you can practice even after dark. For you and other kids from the neighborhood who want to play.” “That costs a lot of money,” Skye said quietly. “I have a lot of money,” Gavin replied. “And for the first time in my life, I want to spend it on something that actually matters.”
Evelyn shook her head skeptically. “Rich people always say stuff like this. Then they disappear when the cameras leave.” Gavin looked her straight in the eye. “I can’t make you believe me with words. I can only show you with actions. Give me a chance. Please.”..
