15. Wes
WES
Ilean against the cold steel of a support beam, arms crossed over my chest, watching Tate work his magic.
It’s what he does. Slow, steady, turning chaos into something a person can hold without getting cut.
The kid, Brody, eats it up. His small hands trace the bolts on the truck’s side panel, his questions sharp and precise.
He’s a little machine, taking it all in, sorting it.
My brother's got it covered. He always does. I should stay here. Let him handle it. It's his lane.
But my eyes drift to the mom. Jordyn. She’s trying to hide it, turning away to look at some dusty old photos on the wall, but I see the quick swipe of her hand across her cheek.
I see the way her shoulders shake just once before she locks them down.
It’s the kind of brittle strength that’s one stiff breeze away from shattering.
It irritates me. That kind of vulnerability is a liability.
Still, my feet don’t move. I watch Tate kneel, explaining some gizmo on the control panel, his voice a low, even murmur.
The kid’s whole world seems to have shrunk to the space between him and my brother.
Safe. Contained. My jaw tightens. This isn’t my problem.
I don't do… this. The messy, emotional stuff.
Fine. I push off the beam. The sound of my boots on the concrete floor is louder than I intend, a sharp scrape against the quiet moment Tate created.
I ignore them both for a second and grab a spare helmet off the rack, the old leatherhead model we keep for tours.
It’s heavy. Real. I snatch a brass Storz coupling from a nearby shelf, its metal solid in my palm.
I walk right up to them, breaking the bubble.
Tate glances up, a question in his eyes.
I ignore him, too. My focus lands on the kid.
He looks up at me, his face a blank slate of curiosity, the awe from a moment ago replaced with something more analytical.
I don’t smile. I don’t soften my voice. I just hold out the gear.
"Here."
The helmet is big, and the coupling has heft. It’s not a toy. It’s a piece of the job, solid and uncomplicated. A task, not a conversation.
Brody’s eyes flick from the brass coupling to my face, then back again.
A quick, efficient inventory. He doesn’t reach.
He just assesses, a tiny machine calculating risk and reward.
I expect him to shrink back, to look to his mom or to Tate for a green light.
He does neither. He just watches me, his gaze so direct it's almost unnerving. The silence stretches. I can feel Tate shift his weight, probably ready to jump in and smooth things over. I don’t look at him. My arm doesn’t waver. Take it or don’t.
Finally, a small hand darts out. His fingers close around the heavy brass coupling first, his arm dipping with the surprising weight.
He doesn't complain. He just adjusts his grip. Then, his other hand finds the worn leather strap of the helmet. He takes them both, cradling them like they’re artifacts from another world.
He runs a thumb over the Storz lugs, his head cocked.
I nod toward an intake port on the engine’s side panel.
“Twist it.”
He moves to the truck, the coupling held tight in both hands. He tries to jam it onto the intake, but the angle is wrong. A scrape of metal on metal. He pulls back, frowns, and looks at the two pieces again. He has the puzzle, he just needs the sequence.
“Try again.”
He turns it, attempts to line up the lugs with the catches. It’s clumsy. His small hands struggle against the mechanism. Tate would be down on one knee by now, explaining the physics of it. I stay standing. I tap the coupling just above his fingers.
“Straight on. No angle.”
He adjusts, pushes it flat against the intake. He twists. The lugs slip. He lets out a frustrated huff.
“Again.”
This time, his brow furrows. He plants his feet.
He lines it up, pushes, and turns his whole body with the motion.
I hear the click as the lugs catch in the grooves.
He keeps twisting, a grunt of effort escaping his lips, until the coupling locks tight with a solid thud.
He steps back, his eyes fixed on his work. A job done.
The kid gets into a rhythm. Uncouple, turn, line up, twist, lock.
Each motion cleaner than the last. His breathing evens out, shoulders dropping from around his ears.
The helmet sits crooked on his head, too big, but he doesn't adjust it.
He's locked onto the task, his world narrowed to brass and steel and the satisfying click of connection.
I grab another coupling from the shelf. Heavier gauge. More threads to catch. I set it beside the first.
"Switch."
He doesn't hesitate. Removes the first coupling with the same deliberate twist, sets it aside with care. The new one requires more force. His first attempt fails. The threads catch wrong, metal grinding against metal. He stops, resets, tries again. Still wrong.
"Feel it."
His hands still on the coupling. He closes his eyes for a second, fingertips exploring the threading. When he opens them, he's got it. The coupling slides home smooth as silk, locks tight with a solid thunk.
He looks up at me, not for approval, just acknowledgment. A job completed. I nod toward a third coupling, this one with a different thread pitch. He reaches for it without being asked.
The exchange settles into something wordless.
He works, I watch. When he fumbles, I don't explain the mechanics or offer encouragement.
I just wait. Let him figure it out. His hands learn the weight, the resistance, the way each piece wants to move.
Success builds on success, each connection faster and more confident than the last.
Tate shifts behind us, probably itching to jump in with explanations about water pressure and flow rates. I don't look at him. This isn't his moment. It's not mine either. It's the kid's, working through metal and motion until the chaos in his head quiets down to something manageable.
I catch some movement in my peripheral vision. Jordyn, arms wrapped around herself, watching us with something between confusion and alarm. Her mouth is pressed into a thin line, jaw tight. She looks like she's witnessing something that shouldn't work but does.
Brody disconnects the third coupling, sets it down with the others in a neat row. He straightens, pushes the helmet back on his head, and looks at me expectantly. Waiting for the next task. No words needed.
Tate clears his throat, probably ready to fill the space with gentle conversation. I ignore him. The kid's found his groove. No point in breaking it with talk.
Jordyn takes a step closer, her sneakers silent on the concrete. Her eyes dart between Brody and me, searching for something. An explanation, maybe. Some sign that this makes sense.
It doesn't. But it works.
Brody sets the final coupling down with the same deliberate care he's shown with all the others.
The row of brass fittings gleams under the fluorescent lights, each one aligned with military precision.
He pushes the oversized helmet back from where it's slipped down over his eyes, the leather strap catching on his ear.
For a moment, he just stands there, hands loose at his sides, looking at his work.
Then he tilts his head up at me, those wide brown eyes taking inventory of my face the same way he'd catalogued the threading on the couplings. Direct. Analytical. No filter between thought and observation.
"You don't talk too much."
The words hit the air, matter-of-fact as a weather report.
Not a compliment, not criticism. Just data, filed away and reported back.
I feel something pull at the corner of my mouth, a ghost of amusement that I kill before it can take hold.
The kid's got me pegged in one sentence.
Eight years old and he's reading people like instruction manuals.
I shrug, the motion rolling through my shoulders.
"Yeah. I get that a lot."
Behind us, Tate shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
I can practically hear his brain spinning, probably cataloguing this moment as some kind of breakthrough.
Jordyn's moved closer without me noticing, her arms still wrapped across her chest like she's holding herself together with willpower alone.
The tension radiating off her is sharp enough to cut glass.
Brody nods once, a quick bob of his head that says the information has been processed and filed. He turns back to the truck, running his palm along the smooth metal panel beside the intake port. His touch is light, reverent almost, like he's memorizing the texture.
"The threads are different sizes."
"They are."
"For different water pressure."
"Yep."
He traces the intake with his index finger, following the circular groove where the coupling sits. "The big one was harder to turn."
"More threads to catch."
"More friction."
I nod. The kid's connecting dots, building a framework in his head that makes sense of the chaos.
It's what he needs—patterns, logic, cause and effect laid out in clean lines.
No emotional subtext to decode, no hidden meanings to trip over.
Just metal and mechanics and the simple satisfaction of pieces that fit.
The helmet slips down over his eyes again. This time he doesn't push it back. He just stands there, a small figure dwarfed by gear designed for grown men, his world narrowed to the space between leather and steel. Safe in the cocoon of something too big for him.
Tate takes a step forward, his mouth opening like he's about to fill the silence with gentle conversation.
I catch his eye and shake my head once. Quick.
Definitive. He stops, understanding passing between us without words.
The kid doesn't need talk right now. He needs the quiet space to process what he's learned.
Jordyn's breathing has changed, gone shallow and tight. She's watching Brody like she's seeing something impossible—her son, calm and engaged, in a place that should overwhelm him. The confusion on her face is raw, unguarded. Like she's afraid to believe what she's seeing.
I wish I could take that away from her.