Chapter 4: Morning Mist on Route 4
The morning fog rolled off the river and settled heavy and gray over the rooftops of Oakhaven, turning the pine trees into jagged charcoal sketches against the sky. By six o'clock, I was already behind the wheel of my old pickup truck—the one with the rusted passenger fender and the toolbox rattling in the bed—bouncing down the gravel shoulder toward the local grocery store.
The engine block ticked as I pulled into the empty dirt lot beside Miller’s Market, the damp chill clinging to my beard. Inside, the fluorescent tubes flickered awake with an electric hum, casting a sterile white glare over aisles of canned peaches, flour sacks, and cheap bread. Arthur Miller, a heavy-set man with flour dusted permanently onto his apron, looked up from behind the deli counter as the bell above the door jingled.
He didn't say hello. People in Oakhaven didn't waste words on me unless they needed a transmission dropped or a tire patched. But today, Arthur’s eyes didn't just slide past me; they lingered, traveling from my grease-stained work boots up to the basket I was dragging across the linoleum.
I loaded the wire basket with things I hadn't bought in twenty years of living alone: a gallon of whole milk, a sack of red apples, two loaves of soft white bread, cans of chicken noodle soup, and a box of oatmeal. I added a couple of cheap plastic toys—a small red fire truck I spotted hanging on a rack near the register—before setting the load down on the worn wooden counter with a heavy thud.
Arthur wiped his hands on his apron, his gaze dropping to the milk and the fruit, then rising slowly to meet my eyes. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek, a sure sign he was biting back a question.
"Big morning, Jax," Arthur said finally, his voice gravelly from decades of tobacco and cold air. He reached out to scan the items, his movements slower than usual. "Ain't seen you buying fresh fruit since the diner opened back in ninety-eight."
"Things change," I said, laying a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
"Reckon they do," Arthur muttered, sliding the change across the scarred wood. He paused, his thick fingers resting on the cash drawer. "Word travels fast in a town this size, Jax. Clara was down here an hour ago picking up coffee for the morning shift. Said you had company over at the Starlight. Said there's a little boy with eyes just like yours sitting in the back of your shop."
I didn't flinch. I picked up the brown paper bags, the weight of them feeling strange and solid in my arms. "Clara's got too much time on her hands."
"Maybe so," Arthur said, leaning his bulk against the counter and lowering his voice. "Or maybe she just remembers what happened twenty years ago when you rolled out of town on that chopper like the devil was chasing you. People around here don't like strangers, Jax, but they like ghosts even less. You sure you know what you're doing with a kid in that drafty garage?"
"He's my blood, Arthur," I said quietly. The words didn't taste like ash anymore; they tasted like iron.
Arthur held my gaze for a long, heavy second, the old fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Then, slowly, he nodded once—a short, grudging dip of his chin—and stepped back from the register. "Just make sure you keep him out of the wind. That boy looks like he's made of dry pine."
I turned on my heel, the bell jangling behind me, and walked out into the damp morning mist.
By the time I pulled back into the gravel drive behind Vance’s Garage, the sun was burning a pale, watery hole through the fog, casting long yellow fingers across the corrugated metal siding. The bay doors were rolled down halfway. Inside, the heavy smell of old motor oil and welding flux hung in the air, mixed now with the faint, sweet scent of oatmeal boiling on the hotplate I’d dragged out from the back office.
Leo was sitting on a wooden stool near the workbench, his small legs dangling a few inches off the floor. He had my old, oversized leather work gloves on his hands—the fingers swallowed up by thick cowhide so he looked like he had paws—and he was trying to balance a heavy crescent wrench on his palm.
Sarah was sitting on an upturned crate nearby, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket I’d brought from my cot. Her breathing was still shallow, but the violent rattle had eased up a bit after a night out of the damp motel room.
When the truck door slammed, Leo’s head shot up. The gloves slipped off his hands, clattering against the concrete floor, but he didn't care. He hopped off the stool and walked toward the open bay door, stopping right at the threshold where the sunlight met the grease-stained floor.
I got out of the truck, grabbed the brown paper bags from the passenger seat, and walked over to him. I didn't smile—I didn't know how, not really—but I stopped right in front of him and held out the small plastic package with the red fire truck.
Leo looked down at the toy, then up at my face. His big hazel eyes searched mine, looking for the storm Sarah had warned him about.
May you like
"Breakfast first," I said, my voice rough and low in the quiet garage. "Then we'll see if you know how to turn a bolt."
Leo’s small mouth twitched at the corners—a tiny, hesitant hint of a grin—and for the first time in twenty years, the silence in my workshop didn't feel quite so empty.
