The Boy I Crashed Into

Chapter Four – Smoke and Secrets

Sophia's POV

I couldn’t concentrate all morning. Every time I opened my notebook, I found myself staring at the printed photo tucked between the pages. The yellow smoke curled above the factory chimney like a warning. By lunch, I’d looked at it so many times that Riya finally snatched it from my hands.

“If you keep staring at that thing,” she said, “you’re going to burn a hole through it.”

“What if Mrs. Patel doesn’t talk to us?”

“Then we’ll find someone else. We’re not giving up after one try. Besides, Luca’s coming too. Maybe he’ll actually help instead of warning us the whole time.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled. “He’s just being careful. I think. He did agree to the interview.”

Riya grinned. “Or he just doesn’t want you stealing more photos. You two are kind of funny together.”

The afternoon dragged on. In history class I doodled chimney outlines instead of copying dates. My mind kept jumping between the play props I still needed to fix and what Mrs. Patel might actually tell us. Drama rehearsal turned into a disaster. I missed my cue twice, fumbled a line, and nearly dropped another paper lotus. Mrs. Kapoor clapped her hands. “Sophia! The performance is in two weeks. Whatever is distracting you, handle it after school.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” I muttered, cheeks burning. I forced myself to focus for the rest of practice, but between scenes I caught myself glancing toward the hallway doors, wondering if Luca would pass by. It was stupid. He was just the guy whose camera I wrecked yesterday.

After the final bell, Riya and I hurried to the gate. Luca was already waiting, hands shoved in his pockets. He straightened when he saw us. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”

We started walking. The narrow streets behind the school were still wet from the rain, puddles forcing us to dodge around. The air grew thicker with that sharp chemical tang the closer we got. Riya walked in the middle, notebook already out.

“You really know these lanes,” I said to Luca after he led us down a quick shortcut between two houses.

He shrugged. “Grew up here. You learn the routes that avoid the worst mud.”

Riya pointed ahead. “Mrs. Patel’s place is right there, the blue door. Her son used to kick a ball around with the other kids. Not lately.”

We knocked twice. Mrs. Patel cracked the door open, her face wary as she looked us over. We quickly explained we were students working on a school project about local environmental issues and had heard about her son’s health problems. She hesitated for a long moment, glancing up and down the quiet lane, before finally stepping aside.

“Come in,” she said quietly. “But I can’t talk long.”

The small living room felt stuffy, heavy with the scent of incense and cough syrup. She sat on the edge of a chair, shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, and waited for us to speak.

Riya leaned forward gently. “We’re just trying to understand what’s happening with the kids around here. Your son was in the hospital recently?”

Mrs. Patel exhaled slowly and rubbed her forehead. “Yes. The coughing started six months ago. Mostly at night, then it got constant. Chest pain, trouble breathing. The doctor calls it asthma, but the medicine barely helps. Three other families on this street have children with the exact same issues. We sent official complaints twice. The first time we got a short letter saying they would investigate. The second one just… disappeared. No reply at all.”

I scribbled notes as fast as I could, pulse quickening. This matched the old record perfectly. “Did anyone from the factory ever come speak to you or send a response?”

Before she could answer, Luca jumped in. “It could be more than just the factory though. The main road has all that traffic, right? And the drains flood every rainy season. Probably a mix of everything.”

Mrs. Patel frowned a little but nodded. “The smell is definitely strongest when the wind blows from that side. But yes, the drains don’t help.” She paused, then continued. “Last year we tried getting neighbors to sign a group letter. A few days later some men came around asking questions. After that, most people got scared and backed out.”

Luca nodded along. “Makes sense to be careful. Pushing too hard usually doesn’t change anything around here anyway.”

I glanced at him. He sounded helpful, asking follow-up questions about the hospital visits and daily symptoms, but every time Mrs. Patel started pointing fingers clearly at the factory, he eased the conversation toward other possible causes. It was subtle. Maybe I was reading too much into it after a long day.

We stayed another twenty minutes. Mrs. Patel shared more—how her son woke up gasping some nights, how kids were missing school, how the coughs got worse in the evenings. Riya asked good questions, and I kept writing.

As we stood to leave, Mrs. Patel lowered her voice at the door. “If you truly want real answers, go find Mr. Sharma. He worked maintenance at the factory for over ten years. Lives two lanes over, near the old water tank. But be very careful. He doesn’t like talking about that place at all.”

We thanked her warmly and stepped back into the damp evening air. Riya was buzzing. “This is actually useful. We have patterns now, real examples. Mr. Sharma could break it open.”

“Yeah,” I said, gripping my notebook tighter. The lead felt solid. But as we walked back, I kept replaying the interview. Luca had come along and asked questions, yet something about how he steered things still nagged at me. Like he was trying to help… but carefully.

“You okay?” Luca asked when our eyes met near the school gate.

I nodded. “Just thinking about everything she said. Thanks for coming with us today.”

He gave a small shrug. His black SUV was waiting again at the curb. I watched it pull away, wondering why a guy with a driver seemed so uneasy about a simple school project.

Tomorrow we’d find Mr. Sharma. Whatever Luca’s deal was, we were finally getting somewhere.