What would you do if a nine-year-old kid in duct-taped boots claimed he could heal your child? And he was right. It was cold that morning in Birmingham, Alabama. Not cold enough to snow, but the kind that made your breath show and your fingertips sting. People rushed in and out of the Children’s Medical Center on 7th Avenue, bundled in scarves, clutching coffee cups, moving fast like they could outrun whatever brought them there. But one person wasn’t moving. He sat on a flattened cardboard box near the revolving doors, drawing quietly in a weather-beaten notebook.

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