Chapter 5: Tools and Grease
The afternoon sun cut through the dusty windows of the garage, throwing long, amber slants across the concrete floor. Outside, the distant roar of Harley pipes announced another wave of weekend rally riders passing through Oakhaven, but inside, the world had shrunk down to the steady hum of the box fan and the metallic clink of sockets being sorted into a dented red metal tray.
I stood at the main workbench, a heavy cast-iron intake manifold clamped in the vise, scraping away decades of carbon buildup with a flathead screwdriver. Every few minutes, I glanced down the bench. Leo was sitting cross-legged on a low creeper, entirely absorbed in a pile of discarded washers and spare nuts I’d dumped out for him. He had his tongue slightly clamped between his teeth, his small pale forehead furrowed in deep concentration as he tried to thread a quarter-inch bolt into a threaded sleeve.
Sarah was still wrapped in the wool blanket on the crate by the office door. She hadn't coughed in over an hour, which was the longest stretch since we’d left the motel. Her eyes followed my hands, then moved to Leo, tracking every small movement he made with a quiet, hollow sort of relief.
"He's got your hands," she said softly, her voice raspy from the cold. "Look at how he holds that wrench. Exact same crook in the pinky."
I didn't stop scraping. The carbon flaked off onto the newspaper spread across the bench. "He’s just playing with scrap, Sarah. Doesn't mean anything."
"Everything means something, Jax," she murmured, pulling the blanket tighter around her thin shoulders. "You think I tracked you down here after twenty years because I wanted a handout? I didn't have anyone else left. Martha’s gone. The apartment in Spokane was boarded up two days after we packed the sedan. This is all there is."
I set the screwdriver down. The metal clattered against the vice, loud in the enclosed space. I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the dark circles under her eyes, the stark outline of her cheekbones under pale skin. She wasn't just tired; she was running on borrowed time, the same kind of stubborn, worn-out engine I spent my life trying to keep alive with duct tape and prayers.
"I didn't say it was a handout," I said, keeping my voice flat to keep the ragged edge out of it. "You're here. The boy is here. We'll figure out the roof. But don't start talking about twenty years ago like it was yesterday. Some doors stay shut for a reason."
Leo looked up at the sound of our voices, his big hazel eyes wide and watchful. He didn't cry or shrink back; he just watched us with that heavy, adult patience kids learn when they grow up around too much quiet desperation. He held up a bolt with three different sized washers jammed onto it.
"Look, Jax," he said, his voice small and hopeful. "I made a tower."
I looked down at the clumsy metal stack. A strange, heavy pressure tightened right behind my ribs, an unfamiliar ache that felt dangerously like affection. I forced my jaw to relax, wiped my grease-stained hands on my rag, and walked over to him, kneeling down so I was eye-level with the boy.
"That's a solid tower," I said, my voice dropping an octave, softening against my better judgment. "Won't hold much weight, but it'll stand."
May you like
Leo grinned, a quick flash of teeth that made him look suddenly, painfully like a real eight-year-old instead of a ghost from my past. But before I could say anything else, the sharp crunch of gravel outside signaled the arrival of someone who didn't care about quiet conversations in dusty workshops.
The heavy front door swung open, letting in a flood of bright afternoon light and the familiar scent of diner coffee and spearmint. Clara stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron, her sharp eyes taking in the makeshift camp by the office, Sarah wrapped in blankets, and Leo sitting on the creeper in the middle of my garage.
