Chapter 7: A Plan in Motion

The first rays of morning light crept into Josh’s room, casting a warm glow that gradually pulled him from sleep. For a moment, he lay there, staring up at the ceiling as memories from the previous day settled in. He thought of his mother’s late shifts, her quiet exhaustion, and the sparse contents of the fridge. Last night’s dinner had been simple, but pulling it together with what little they had had made him realize just how hard his mom worked to make ends meet.

It was Friday morning, and there was a certain comfort in the familiar promise of the weekend ahead. For most kids, Friday meant two days of freedom, time to play and forget about school. But for Josh, Friday felt different—a reminder of his mother’s weekday shifts, of her long hours, and of the weight he wanted to help carry.

In his first life, he hadn’t paid much attention to these small signs—the empty pantry shelves, the laundry that piled up, the dark circles under his mother’s eyes after a late shift. But now, each detail weighed on him differently, revealing the sacrifice and resilience she’d poured into every day just to keep their family afloat. She worked tirelessly, juggling late nights and long hours to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. And he knew, in a way he hadn’t fully understood before, that she rarely asked for anything in return.

There has to be a way I can help without raising suspicion, he thought, his mind already turning over possibilities. With his wish-granted ability, he had access to information that could change things for his family. He could research ways to make money, ideas to help lift some of the weight off his mother’s shoulders. But the challenge lay in the fact that he was still a ten-year-old; he had the knowledge, but he lacked the independence to act on most of it. He’d have to be subtle, creative, and cautious to avoid raising too many questions.

Josh took a deep breath, feeling a quiet determination settle over him. This time, he could make a difference, even if it was just in small ways. He would find a way to ease his mother’s burden, to offer support without drawing attention. And if he could pull it off, maybe she wouldn’t have to work so hard, or worry so much.

Pulling himself out of bed, Josh quickly dressed and made his way downstairs. The house was quiet, the morning still fresh. He tiptoed past his mom’s room, where he knew she was probably catching a few precious hours of sleep after her late shift. In the kitchen, he found the remains of the bread loaf and poured himself a glass of milk, eating a simple breakfast and mulling over his thoughts as he chewed.

Once he finished, he grabbed his backpack and took a final glance around the kitchen. He mentally noted the dwindling supplies in the pantry, adding it to the list of things he hoped he could do something about. With a quiet resolve, he headed out the door, feeling the cool morning air wake him up as he walked down the familiar path toward school.

The streets were just beginning to stir, with neighbors pulling out their cars and kids trickling out of their homes. Josh fell into step with the usual Friday morning rhythms of his neighborhood, feeling a bit out of place and yet strangely grounded. This time, he was walking with purpose, his mind already a few steps ahead, mapping out ways to improve his family’s situation.

As he approached the school, he let his gaze drift to the other students around him. They chattered and laughed, completely immersed in their own worlds, oblivious to any worries beyond homework and playtime. Josh envied them, in a way. They could enjoy the ease of being kids, but he was carrying the weight of a second chance, of memories that urged him to do better.

Once he reached his classroom, he settled into his seat, noticing the quiet curiosity from a few classmates who’d picked up on his recent change. He sat up straight, prepared for the day ahead, and waited as Mrs. Thompson began the Friday morning lesson.

Mrs. Thompson stood at the front of the room, holding up a well-loved copy of Charlotte’s Web, its edges worn from years of eager hands turning its pages. “Alright, class,” she began, her voice carrying a warm enthusiasm, “we’re going to continue where we left off. We’ll take turns reading aloud, each of you standing up when it’s your turn.”

Josh watched as she explained, feeling a flicker of excitement he hadn’t experienced in school before. He remembered this book from years ago, but he’d never seen it with the appreciation he had now. This time, he wasn’t just passing time in class—he was fully engaged, ready to absorb every word.

The book began making its way down the rows, each student reading their paragraph with varying degrees of confidence. Some read slowly, stumbling over words, while others raced through, eager to finish their turn.

Finally, the book reached his desk. Mrs. Thompson gave him a gentle nod. “Go ahead, Josh.”

He rose from his seat, holding the book in his hand, but as he began to read, he realized he wasn’t actually looking at the page. The words flowed effortlessly from memory, his voice steady and clear as he delivered each line, his eyes naturally drifting out to his classmates rather than back to the text.

“‘Wilbur didn’t know what to do or which way to run. It seemed as though everybody was after him. If this is what it’s like to be free,’ he thought, ‘I believe I’d rather be penned up in my own yard.’”

His voice carried through the classroom, filling the quiet space with the emotions of the story. As he finished his paragraph and looked up, he saw the eyes of his classmates fixed on him, a few whispering to each other in surprise.

“Nice job, Josh,” Mrs. Thompson said, her eyes slightly narrowed in curiosity as she nodded approvingly. There was a spark of intrigue in her gaze, as if she was beginning to see a side of him she hadn’t before. But she chose not to comment further, motioning for him to pass the book to the next student.

Josh handed it over, feeling a mix of pride and nervousness as he returned to his seat. He hadn’t meant to draw attention to himself, but it seemed he couldn’t help it. The passage had just flowed out of him, unbidden, each word still fresh in his mind as if he’d read it a thousand times before.

As the reading continued, he caught Mrs. Thompson glancing his way a few more times, her gaze thoughtful. He could tell she was watching him with renewed interest, perhaps sensing that his sudden focus and confidence weren’t just a passing phase. There was a hidden intelligence she hadn’t seen before, and she seemed to be quietly piecing together this new version of him.

When they finally finished reading, Mrs. Thompson closed the book with a satisfied smile. “Wonderful job, everyone,” she said. “I could tell you were all focused and engaged. And Josh,” she added, turning to him, “it was great to see you so immersed in the story. Keep it up.”

Josh gave her a small nod, keeping his response modest. “Thanks, Mrs. Thompson.”

She smiled, her expression warm. “I think you have more of a knack for this than you realize,” she said with a hint of encouragement. “Maybe one day you’ll be telling stories of your own.”

Josh felt a rush of warmth at her words, surprised at how much they meant to him. “Maybe,” he replied with a small smile.

The lesson shifted to other activities, and though the moment passed, Josh felt a quiet thrill in knowing he’d made an impression. It was a small victory, one that seemed to confirm he was on the right path. He knew there was a long way to go, but today felt like a real beginning—a glimpse of what he could accomplish if he stayed focused and true to this second chance.

Josh left school feeling both excited for the weekend and weighed down by his thoughts. As he walked the familiar path home, he kept turning over the question that had been pressing on him since morning: How can I help Mom without anyone catching on? She worked so hard, and he wanted to take some of that burden off her shoulders, even if it was just in small ways.

Once he reached home, he went straight to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Inside, he found just a couple of eggs, the last slices of bread, and a near-empty jar of peanut butter. A scan of the pantry didn’t yield much either—just a few cans of soup and a half-full box of rice. His heart sank a little as he realized he couldn’t make much out of these supplies. Maybe, he thought, if I could make a little money, I could pick up some groceries and give Mom a break.

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and stepped outside, crossing the street toward Mr. Johnson’s house. His elderly neighbor had always been kind to him, and Josh knew that Mr. Johnson often needed help with yard work and small tasks around the house. This could be the perfect way to make a little cash without drawing any attention.

As he approached the house, he spotted Mr. Johnson relaxing on his front porch, sipping a steaming cup of coffee. When he saw Josh approaching, the older man smiled warmly, his eyes lighting up.

“Well, if it isn’t my young friend!” Mr. Johnson called out, giving him a wave. “What brings you here this fine afternoon, Josh?”

Josh shifted a bit, glancing around at the yard. “Hey, Mr. Johnson. I was just wondering ... if you needed any help around here? Mowing the lawn, pulling weeds, stuff like that? I’m, uh, trying to make a little extra money.”

Mr. Johnson raised an eyebrow, taking a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “Money, you say?” he asked with a chuckle. “Well, now, as a matter of fact, I was just thinking this yard could use a bit of sprucing up.” He looked out over the overgrown grass and wildflower beds. “The weeds have been having their way lately, and the lawn’s looking downright wild. I’d be more than happy to pay you for a bit of hard work.”

A wave of relief and gratitude washed over Josh, and he smiled gratefully. “Thank you, sir. I’d really appreciate it. I’ll get started right away.”

Mr. Johnson chuckled, setting down his coffee cup. “You’ve got some pep in you, that’s for sure. Tell you what—grab the gloves and tools from the shed out back. And if you need a cold drink, just knock.”

Josh headed to the backyard, where he found the tools just as Mr. Johnson had said. There was an old lawnmower, a pair of gardening gloves, and a sturdy weeder. Slipping on the gloves, he began with the flowerbeds, carefully pulling out dandelions and crabgrass while trying to avoid Mr. Johnson’s few blooming flowers. The work was steady and rhythmic, the sun warm on his back, and he found himself enjoying the satisfaction of tidying up the garden.

After a while, Mr. Johnson wandered over, his hands in his pockets, observing Josh’s work. “Not bad, not bad at all,” he said, nodding with approval. “These old hands aren’t quite what they used to be, so I appreciate you stepping in, son.”

Josh paused, brushing the dirt off his gloves. “Anytime, Mr. Johnson. It’s actually kind of nice to get my hands dirty for a change,” he said with a grin.

Mr. Johnson chuckled. “Well, you’re doing a fine job. Back in my day, my brothers and I would spend hours in the garden pulling weeds. My father always said, ‘A well-tended garden is a sign of a well-tended mind.’ Didn’t understand it then, but I suppose it stuck with me.”

Josh smiled, enjoying the easy conversation as he moved on to mowing the lawn. The mower was a bit old, but it did the job. He focused on neat rows, pushing it steadily across the yard until the whole lawn looked fresh and trim, the smell of cut grass filling the air. By the time he finished, he felt a pleasant exhaustion in his muscles—a sense of accomplishment he hadn’t expected.

As he wiped his brow, Mr. Johnson came out again, this time carrying a cold glass of lemonade. “Here,” he said, holding it out to Josh. “A little refreshment for a job well done.”

Josh took it gratefully, downing half the glass in one gulp. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson. This really hits the spot.”

Mr. Johnson nodded approvingly, and after a pause, he reached into his back pocket, pulling out a small stack of bills. “For the work,” he said, pressing the money into Josh’s hand. “You’ve done more than I expected, and you deserve every penny.”

Josh glanced down at the bills, a sense of gratitude and accomplishment swelling in his chest. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “You don’t know how much this means.”

Mr. Johnson gave him a knowing look, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re a good kid, Josh. And a hard worker. If you ever need more work, you know where to find me.”

“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” Josh replied, giving him a grateful smile. Pocketing the cash, he waved goodbye and started back across the street toward his house, feeling a deep sense of pride and relief. This small act—earning a bit of money on his own—meant that tonight, he could contribute in a way he hadn’t before.

As he walked home, he felt the weight of his purpose solidify within him. These small steps, like earning a bit of extra money and easing his mother’s burden, were the beginning of something real. Tonight, he could bring back groceries and put a real meal on the table for his family, a small but meaningful start in showing them that he could make a difference.

Josh left Mr. Johnson’s house feeling a sense of pride and purpose, the cash in his pocket a small but meaningful step toward supporting his family. Once he got home, he headed straight to the bathroom for a hot shower, letting the warmth soothe his muscles after the afternoon’s work. After drying off and getting dressed, he walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, surveying its limited contents: a few eggs, some bread, a nearly empty milk carton. The pantry held only a few cans and dry staples.