The BMW hummed beneath them, a low German purr that felt almost obscene on the dust-choked roads between Multan and Hyderpur. Riyaz drove. Arslan sat in the passenger seat, small body barely visible, face pressed to the window. Behind them, a second vehicle—a battered Suzuki pickup they'd hired for the occasion—carried the real cargo: two million rupees in cash, packed into grain sacks because that was the only way to move that much money without announcing it to every bandit between here and home.
Two million. To be collected.
Riyaz's hands were steady on the wheel, but his mind was not. The numbers had hit. Both of them. The seven-digit and the four-digit. The fuzzy, half-remembered, barely-coherent dream had produced not one but two winning tickets. The Multan contact—a new man, recommended by Jamil but unknown to the network—had handled it cleanly. No questions. No curiosity about the previous wins. Just a transaction, a cut, and a quiet handover of more cash than most people in this country would see in a lifetime.
Riyaz had driven the BMW himself to collect it. Not because he didn't trust the driver—he did, mostly—but because he needed to feel it. Needed to sit behind the wheel of this ridiculous car and remind himself that this was real. That the last two months had actually happened.
The money was real. The animals were real. The guards, the servants, the land, the BMW—all real.
And next to him, the source of all of it sat with his nose pressed to the glass, watching the barren landscape roll by like he was seeing it for the first time.
"Stop."
Riyaz's foot twitched on the accelerator. "What?"
"There." Arslan pointed. Not at anything—at a patch of dirt. Brown, cracked, featureless. The kind of land that stretched for thousands of miles across Punjab, noticed by no one, owned by no one, worth nothing.
Riyaz looked. Saw nothing. Looked back at the road.
"What about it?"
"I want it."
The words were simple. Childlike. The same tone a five-year-old used when asking for a toy or a sweet. But Riyaz had learned, over the past two months, that nothing Arslan asked for was simple.
"That's just dirt, bete."
"I know." Arslan didn't turn from the window. "I want it."
Riyaz glanced in the rearview mirror. The driver of the Suzuki—a thin man named Iqbal who had worked for Riyaz's family for years—was watching with the expression of someone who had learned not to question anything anymore.
Riyaz sighed. "Iqbal, make a note."
Iqbal pulled out a small notebook and a stub of pencil. "Location, Malik Sahib?"
Riyaz looked at the endless brown expanse. "Here. Wherever here is. We'll figure it out later."
Iqbal wrote something down. Arslan said nothing. The BMW hummed on.
---
Five minutes later.
"Stop."
Again. Another patch. Indistinguishable from the first.
"What now?"
"That." Arslan pointed.
Riyaz looked. More dirt. Maybe slightly more rock. Possibly a different shade of brown.
"Arslan—"
"I want it, Nana."
Riyaz looked at Iqbal in the mirror. Iqbal, to his credit, had already raised his pencil.
"Note it," Riyaz said.
Iqbal noted.
---
The pattern continued for two hours.
Every few kilometers, Arslan would speak. One word. "Stop." One gesture. A small finger pointing at nothing. And Riyaz would sigh, and Iqbal would write, and the list of "locations" in his notebook grew longer and longer.
Some were on the main road. Some required the BMW to pull onto tracks so narrow that Riyaz was certain they would shred the tires or snap an axle. Arslan didn't care. He pointed, and Riyaz stopped, and Iqbal noted, and they moved on.
By the time the outskirts of Multan appeared on the horizon, Iqbal had filled three pages.
Riyaz lit a cigarette.
He didn't smoke. Hadn't smoked in twenty years. But somewhere between the twelfth and thirteenth "stop," he had reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pack he'd bought months ago and never opened. Now he was on his third, the smoke curling out the window, the ash falling onto the leather seat that cost more than most people's houses.
Arslan glanced at him. Said nothing. Turned back to the window.
Riyaz took another drag and kept driving.
---
Multan swallowed them.
The city rose around them—dusty, chaotic, ancient. Buses stuffed to bursting, men hanging from doors, children running between vehicles. Donkey carts and bicycles and the occasional motorized rickshaw, all moving in patterns that looked like chaos but somehow worked. The BMW drew stares. It was too low, too clean, too foreign for these streets. People stopped to look. A group of children ran alongside for a block, shouting things Riyaz couldn't understand.
Arslan ignored them all. His eyes were on the buildings now. The shops. The markets. The endless rows of commerce that lined every street.
"There."
Riyaz followed his gaze. A row of shops. Small, cramped, their fronts open to the street. A tailor. A tea stall. A general store. A bakery at the end, its windows dusty, its display cases half-empty.
"The bakery?"
"The whole row."
Riyaz's cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. "The whole row?"
Arslan nodded. Matter-of-fact. Like he was asking for a glass of water.
"It's a good location. The road will widen in five years. The bus stand will move closer. These shops will be worth ten times what they are now."
Riyaz stared at him. The words were too precise. Too knowing. They didn't sound like a child. They sounded like—
Arslan turned and looked at him. Innocent. Wide-eyed. The perfect picture of childhood.
"Please, Nana?"
Riyaz took a long drag. Exhaled slowly.
"Iqbal," he said. "Note the location. And find out who owns these shops."
Iqbal, who had long since stopped being surprised by anything, wrote diligently.
---
The bakery was an afterthought.
Or maybe it was the main thought. Riyaz wasn't sure anymore. They had stopped for snacks—Arslan wanted sweets, and the bakery was right there, and surely that was innocent enough.
They went inside. The place was small, cramped, smelling of old oil and stale sugar. The owner was an old man with flour on his clothes and suspicion in his eyes. He looked at the BMW parked outside, at Riyaz's clothes, at the child holding his hand, and his expression shifted from suspicion to calculation.
"Can I help you, sir?"
Arslan didn't wait for an answer. He walked to the counter, stood on his toes, and pointed at the display case.
"That one. And that one. And that one. And all of those."
The owner blinked. "All of—"
"Everything," Arslan said. "I want everything."
Riyaz opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Arslan, we can't—"
"Why not?"
"Because—" Because what? Because it was ridiculous? Because they had nowhere to put fifty kilograms of sweets? Because they were supposed to be driving back to Hyderpur, not emptying a bakery?
Arslan's face was doing something. Not quite a pout. Not quite a frown. Something in between that Riyaz was beginning to recognize as the beginning of trouble.
"The rabbits like sweets," Arslan said. "The chickens too. And the goats. And—"
"Goats don't eat sweets."
"This one does. The brown one with the spot. I gave it a biscuit yesterday and it was very happy."
Riyaz looked at the owner. The owner looked at Riyaz. Something passed between them—the ancient understanding of adults faced with the incomprehensible logic of children.
"Perhaps," the owner said carefully, "the young master would like to sample a few items first? Before committing to—" he glanced at his entire inventory, "—everything."
Arslan considered this. Nodded. "Okay. But I want to try everything."
The owner, sensing opportunity, began pulling items from the display. Small pieces of halwa. Broken bits of biscuit. A single jalebi, dripping with syrup. Arslan sampled each one with the solemn focus of a food critic, nodding or shaking his head as appropriate.
Riyaz watched. Lit another cigarette. Wondered how his life had come to this.
After ten minutes of tasting, Arslan made his decision.
"Not everything," he announced. "But most things. And I want to buy the bakery."
Silence.
The owner's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"The—the bakery?"
"Yes." Arslan nodded, as if this were the most reasonable request in the world. "Then I can get sweets whenever I want. And the rabbits will always be happy."
Riyaz closed his eyes. Took a long drag. Exhaled slowly.
"How much?" he asked.
The owner blinked. "For the—for the entire business?"
"The building. The equipment. The inventory. Everything." Riyaz's voice was flat. Resigned. The voice of a man who had stopped fighting the current and was simply letting it carry him where it would.
The owner named a figure. It was high. Not outrageous, but high.
Riyaz opened his eyes. Looked at Arslan. The boy was watching him with those too-wide eyes, full of hope and innocence and something else—something that might have been calculation, or might have been nothing at all.
"Get the landowner," Riyaz said. "We'll negotiate."
---
The deal took two hours.
The landowner arrived, summoned by a boy on a bicycle. He was a fat man with a sweaty face and quick eyes, and he spent the first twenty minutes trying to figure out who, exactly, he was dealing with. A wealthy old man? A foreign investor? Someone's servant running an errand?
He never figured it out. Because the negotiations were conducted by Riyaz, yes—Riyaz who had negotiated land deals and military contracts and the terms of men's lives. But every time the landowner thought he had a deal, the child would speak.
"I want that wall painted blue."
"The rent should include the storage space in the back."
"If we buy it, the rabbits can come visit, right?"
Each comment shifted something. Each observation revealed knowledge the landowner couldn't account for. By the end, he was looking at Arslan with something like fear.
Riyaz paid five percent as a token. The rest would follow when the papers were ready. The owner shook his hand, then Arslan's, then fled.
Arslan, meanwhile, had already moved to the display cases. He was directing Iqbal—who had been summoned from the car—on which sweets to pack. "These. And these. Not those, they're stale. These ones. The rabbits like the ones with color."
Iqbal packed. Riyaz watched. The sun moved across the sky.
---
They left Multan not with just 2 million pkr cash. Also with the trunk full of sweets and a new set of land deeds in progress.
The drive back was slower. Arslan had eaten too much halwa and was now slightly sick, leaning against the door with his eyes half-closed. Riyaz drove in silence, the cigarette long dead, the window still open to let out the smell.
They passed more land. More barren stretches. More dirt roads that led nowhere.
Arslan, without opening his eyes, waved a small hand at a line of shops they passed.
Iqbal, in the passenger seat, looked back at Riyaz. His expression was helpless. Lost. The look of a man who had signed up for a simple driving job and found himself witness to something he couldn't explain.
Riyaz met his eyes. Held them. Then, slowly, nodded.
Iqbal pulled out his notebook and wrote.
---
By the time they reached Hyderpur, the sun was setting. The animals were being fed. The guards were at their posts. The rooster, seeing the BMW approach, launched itself at the gate in a futile display of dominance.
Riyaz parked. Sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel. Did the math in his head.
One point five million. Approximately. That's what Arslan had spent today, in land and shops and a bakery and enough sweets to poison a small army. One point five million of the two million he had collected that morning.
He had five hundred thousand left. Maybe less, after the deals finalized.
Five hundred thousand, and a growing estate, and a grandson who pointed at dirt and turned it into gold.
Arslan stirred beside him. Opened his eyes. Looked at his grandfather with that expression that was too old, too knowing, too something.
"In God's name we trust, Nana."
The words hung in the air. Simple. Familiar. The phrase every Muslim uttered without thinking, a reflex, a comfort.
But from Arslan's mouth, it sounded like something else. A promise. A warning. A key.
Riyaz felt a shock run through his body. Cold. Quick. Gone before he could name it.
He repeated it for the irony for the taste of the words to settle into his skin and soul.
" In God we trust "
Then Arslan was out of the car, running toward the rabbit hutches, shouting about the sweets he had brought.
The moment passed.
Riyaz sat alone in the BMW, watching his grandson through the windshield, and wondered if he would ever understand anything again.
---
The fat man's name was Rana Faisal. He owned a dairy distribution network that stretched from Multan to Bahawalpur, and he had heard about Malik Riyaz's operation from a cousin who knew a servant who worked at the haveli. The cousin had described it as "something you have to see to believe." Rana Faisal had expected exaggeration. What he found, parking his beaten Suzuki next to a gleaming BMW that looked like it had driven straight out of a European catalog, was something else entirely.
Riyaz met him at the gate. The old man's handshake was firm, his face unreadable, his eyes doing that thing they always did—assessing, weighing, calculating. Behind them, the estate sprawled in organized chaos. Animal sheds curved around the perimeter like a fortress wall. Goats bleated from one direction, cows lowed from another, and somewhere a peacock screamed with the indignation of a creature that knew it was too beautiful for this setting.
Rana Faisal's eyes widened. "Malik Sahib, when they told me, I thought—" He gestured vaguely. "This is something else."
Riyaz said nothing. He simply turned and walked toward the main shed, expecting the man to follow. The fat man did.
---
They walked past rows of animals that seemed to go on forever. Goats with long silky hair that Rana Faisal had only seen in pictures from Iran. Sheep with black heads and curled wool that looked like they belonged in a textbook. A buffalo the size of a small truck that watched them pass with ancient, contemptuous eyes.
"These breeds," Rana Faisal said, stopping at a pen. "The Kajli sheep—I haven't seen this many outside of a government breeding program. And the goats—are those Damascus? I thought they were impossible to find in Pakistan."
Riyaz looked at the goats. They were the ones with the long ears and the roman noses, the ones Arslan had thrown a tantrum over at the mandi. Riyaz had thought they were just... goats.
"Difficult to find," he agreed. "Not impossible."
Rana Faisal nodded slowly, respect dawning on his face. "And the setup—the sheds are positioned for maximum airflow. The drainage channels—" He pointed at the shallow trenches running between pens. "You've designed this for monsoon season. Most operations flood every year. You'll barely notice the rain."
Riyaz followed his gaze. The drainage channels. He had thought they were for cleaning. The servants had dug them because Arslan had pointed at the ground one day and said "water goes here" in that way children say things that don't make sense. The servants, by now conditioned to obey any instruction that came from the boy, had dug.
"Experience," Riyaz said.
"Military?"
"Thirty years."
Rana Faisal's respect deepened visibly. "It shows. The efficiency. The planning. Most farmers think season to season. This—" He gestured at the sweeping arc of sheds, the carefully positioned trees, the herb gardens growing between animal pens. "This is generational."
Riyaz kept his face still. Inside, something was shifting.
---
They reached the feeding area. A massive trough—really just a shallow depression in the ground lined with concrete—held a pale liquid that steamed slightly in the morning air. Servants were adding crushed vegetable peels, mango skins, something that looked like aloe vera.
Rana Faisal stopped. "What's this?"
"Feed mixture." Riyaz had watched it prepared a hundred times. Arslan's instructions, delivered in that casual child-voice that everyone now obeyed without question. "Vegetable waste, fruit skins, herbs. Fermented buttermilk base."
"The animals drink this?"
"They thrive on it." This, at least, Riyaz knew was true. The goats had grown sleeker. The cows produced more milk. Even the camels, perpetually offended by existence, seemed marginally less hostile.
A servant approached with a metal cup, dipped it in the trough, offered it to Rana Faisal. The fat man sniffed it. His eyebrows rose.
"It's—"
"Taste it."
Rana Faisal drank. His eyes widened. "This is—this is actually good. Tangy. Fresh. What's in it?"
Riyaz thought about the list. Mint from the garden. Aloe vera from the pots by the kitchen. Mango peels that would have been thrown away. Leftover buttermilk from the morning's churning. "Nutritional supplement," he said. "Proprietary."
Rana Faisal looked at the trough. At the animals. At the servants moving with quiet efficiency. At the rows of herbs growing between pens—mint, coriander, something that might have been fenugreek. All planted, Riyaz now realized, in patterns that made them easy to harvest and throw into that trough.
"Malik Sahib," Rana Faisal said slowly, "how long did this take?"
Riyaz considered the question. The truth was months. Less than six. But the truth sounded insane.
"Long enough."
---
They sat in the shaded veranda. Tea arrived, brought by a servant who moved with the silent efficiency of someone who had learned that questions were not welcome. In the distance, near the rabbit hutches, a small figure in white sat cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by animals.
Rana Faisal's eyes kept drifting to that figure. "Your grandson?"
Riyaz nodded. Didn't offer more.
"He's comfortable with the animals."
"They like him."
Rana Faisal watched for a moment longer. The boy was feeding bread to a rabbit—actual bread, the kind most villagers couldn't afford to eat themselves. The rabbit took it delicately, nibbling with the focus of creatures that lived entirely in the present.
"The rabbits," Rana Faisal said. "You breed them?"
"They breed themselves."
A chuckle. "That they do. But the variety—the gray one, the fat one, that's a Flemish Giant, isn't it? Rare in Pakistan. Good meat yield. Fast growth."
Riyaz looked at the rabbit. It was the gray one. The one Arslan had named something—Riyaz couldn't remember what. Fat. Friendly. Surrounded by smaller rabbits that had appeared over the past months with the mysterious inevitability of rabbits.
"Experimental," Riyaz said.
Rana Faisal nodded like this made perfect sense. "Cross-breeding programs. Smart. Long-term investment in protein diversity." He made a note in a small book. "I've seen government farms with less vision."
Riyaz said nothing. There was nothing to say.
---
The conversation shifted to business.
Rana Faisal wanted milk. All of it. The buffalo milk for sweets, the cow milk for everyday consumption, the goat milk for customers who believed it was healthier. He had numbers, contracts, proposals. He had done his research.
"You're producing," he said, consulting his notes, "approximately—and correct me if I'm wrong—two hundred liters daily from the buffalo alone. Another hundred fifty from the cows. Eighty from the goats. The camels—" He looked up. "Are you milking the camels?"
"Yes." Riyaz had learned this fact three days ago when a servant asked where to store the camel milk. He had nodded and said "the usual place" and hoped it existed. It did.
Rana Faisal whistled softly. "Camel milk is gold. Literally. The export market alone—" He shook his head. "And you're feeding them that mixture. The milk quality must be exceptional."
"It is." Riyaz had never tasted it. He made a mental note to try some.
"I can offer you twelve rupees per liter for the buffalo milk. Fourteen for cow. Eighteen for goat. Camel milk—" He named a figure that made Riyaz's eyebrows twitch. "That's higher than market, but I'm buying consistency. I'm buying the system. I've seen a dozen operations collapse because they couldn't maintain quality through summer. You've designed for that." He gestured at the herb gardens, the shaded pens, the drainage channels. "This won't collapse."
Riyaz considered the numbers. Did quick mental math—or tried to. The figures blurred. Two hundred liters times twelve. Plus the others. Plus the camels. It came to something. Something significant.
"And the buttermilk," Rana Faisal added. "The servants drink it. I saw them. That means it's good enough for their families. Do you sell it?"
"Not yet."
"Don't. Process it. Market it as a health drink. Fermented, probiotic, traditional—city people will pay ten times what it costs to make." He leaned forward. "Malik Sahib, you're sitting on something here. This isn't just a dairy. It's an ecosystem. The animals feed the plants, the plants feed the animals, the waste feeds the soil, the soil feeds—" He gestured at the orchards visible in the distance, rows of young trees that Arslan had pointed at and Riyaz had bought. "How old are those orchards?"
Riyaz looked at the trees. They were mature. Fully grown. They had arrived that way, transplanted from nurseries Arslan had somehow found, because the boy had insisted that "old trees are better" and Riyaz had stopped asking questions.
"Established," he said.
Rana Faisal nodded slowly. "You started this years ago. The trees, the breeds, the infrastructure—this wasn't built in a year."
"No."
"Five years? Ten?"
Riyaz met his eyes. Said nothing.
Rana Faisal took the silence as confirmation. "Incredible. Most people think short term. Quick profit. You've been building this for—" He shook his head. "The land alone, strategically placed for future expansion. The tree lines on the boundaries—those aren't decorative, they're windbreaks and future timber. The bushes underneath—fodder, medicine, soil stabilization. Every square inch has a purpose."
Riyaz looked at the tree lines. The bushes. The purposeful chaos of it all. He had watched Arslan point at each one, had signed the checks, had told himself it was a child's whimsy.
"The boundary trees," he said slowly, "provide shade. Reduce water evaporation. The bushes—"
"Fix nitrogen. Provide ground cover. Some of those—" Rana Faisal squinted. "Is that moringa?"
"Yes." Riyaz had no idea what moringa was.
"Moringa. Miracle tree. Leaves are nutritious, can be sold as supplement, animals can eat them, people can eat them. And you've planted it along the entire eastern boundary." He looked at Riyaz with something approaching awe. "This isn't a farm. It's a blueprint."
---
They talked for another hour. Rana Faisal asked questions. Riyaz answered with nods, silences, occasional words that could mean anything. The fat man interpreted each response as confirmation of his growing thesis: that Malik Riyaz was a visionary, that this operation was years in the making, that the old military man had applied strategic thinking to agriculture with devastating effect.
Riyaz let him believe it. What else could he do?
At one point, Rana Faisal mentioned "land banking"—using agricultural land as collateral for development loans, the way smart farmers positioned themselves for urban expansion. Riyaz nodded like this was obvious. Inside, he was recalculating. The land Arslan had pointed at—barren patches, useless strips, dirt roads to nowhere—were any of them near cities? Near future developments? He didn't know. He had never asked.
But Rana Faisal was still talking. "The location near Multan—the shops you bought—that was smart. Very smart. The bus stand is relocating in five years, everyone knows it, but you bought before the announcement. How did you—" He stopped himself. "Forgive me. That's your business."
Riyaz's face revealed nothing. Inside, something cold ran through him. The bus stand. The shops. Arslan's tantrum, the sudden purchase, the way the boy had "just known."
"Timing," Riyaz said.
Rana Faisal nodded. "Timing is everything. And you've timed it perfectly."
---
The deal was struck. Rana Faisal would take all milk production starting next week. Prices locked for six months. A contract would be drawn. They shook hands on it.
As they walked back toward the gate, the fat man paused one last time, looking at the estate. The animals. The trees. The herbs. The small figure still sitting with the rabbits, now feeding bread to a peacock that had deigned to approach.
"Malik Sahib," Rana Faisal said, "if you ever decide to expand—if you ever need a partner—I hope you'll consider me."
Riyaz looked at him. At the earnest face, the sincere respect, the complete absence of suspicion.
"I'll consider it," he said.
Rana Faisal left. His Suzuki rattled down the dirt road, disappearing into the dust.
Riyaz stood at the gate for a long moment. Then he walked back toward the house, past the animals, past the servants, past everything that had seemed like chaos and now looked like something else.
---
He found Arslan in the rabbit enclosure. The boy was sitting exactly as before, surrounded by animals that had grown comfortable with his presence. A rabbit sat in his lap. A chicken pecked at the ground near his feet. The peacock, having received its bread, was displaying its feathers with the vanity of creatures that had no other purpose.
Arslan looked up. His face was innocent, open, the face of a child who had spent the morning doing child things.
"Did the man leave, Nana?"
"He left."
"Did he buy the milk?"
Riyaz looked at his grandson. At the small hands that had fed bread to rabbits. At the eyes that saw too much. At the boy who had somehow, in less than six months, built something that professionals called visionary.
"He bought all of it."
Arslan nodded. Like this was expected. Like it was nothing.
"Good," he said. And then, because he was six: "Can we have biryani for dinner?"
Riyaz almost laughed. Almost.
"Sure, bete. Biryani."
---
That night, after dinner, after prayers, after the estate had settled into its nightly rhythm of animal sounds and servant whispers, Riyaz sat alone in his study.
He had counted the money. Three hundred thousand left. Three hundred thousand, and a dairy contract worth—he did the math again, slower this time—approximately forty thousand per month. Minimum. Plus the trees that would fruit in coming years. Plus the land that was apparently positioned for developments he didn't know about. Plus the animals that kept breeding, the rabbits that kept multiplying, the peacocks that kept being peacocks.
He had been worried. Sleepless. Certain that the money would run out and everything would collapse.
Instead, he had sat with a dairy distributor and been treated like a genius.
Riyaz looked at the papers on his desk. The land deeds. The animal purchase records. The notes from Arslan's "dreams." The lottery numbers that had started all of this.
He thought about the boy's face when he'd asked about the milk deal. The calm acceptance. The lack of surprise.
He knew, Riyaz thought. He knew this would happen. He planned it.
But that was impossible. The boy was six years old. Six.
Riyaz closed his eyes. When he opened them, nothing had changed. The papers were still there. The questions were still unanswered. The future was still unwritten.
In the distance, a peacock screamed. A goat answered. Somewhere, a rabbit twitched its nose in sleep.
Riyaz looked at the ceiling and whispered, almost without meaning to:
"In God's name we trust."
---
In his room, Arslan lay on his cot, staring at the darkness.
He had heard the conversation. Not the words—he was too far for that—but the tone. The respect in the fat man's voice. The way Riyaz had walked back to the house with something new in his step.
The dairy deal was done. The money would flow. The land would appreciate. The trees would fruit. The animals would breed. Compound interest, working silently, invisibly, inevitably.
He thought about the books he had read in his first life. Kicking Away the Ladder. Poverty & Power. The Age of Unreason. How Money Became Dangerous. They had taught him that the rich didn't get rich by working harder. They got rich by owning things that grew while they slept.
He was six years old. He owned things that would grow for decades.
In the darkness, Arslan smiled.
"Rabbits," he whispered to no one. "Chickens. Trees. Land. Milk."
The rabbit in the hutch near his window twitched its ears.
"In God's name," Arslan said softly, "we trust."
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would have another dream. The money was running low, and the next phase required funds. But tonight, he let himself rest.
Tonight, he was just a boy with rabbits.
And that was enough.