Chapter 17
REID
Owen was halfway inside the engine compartment of a forty-two-foot trawler when I found him.
Only his boots and the back of his coveralls remained visible above the open hatch. A portable work light threw hard white shadows across the machinery space, and the bilge smelled of diesel, hot insulation, and the citrus solvent Caleb insisted was less toxic than the old stuff.
I crouched beside the hatch.
“Need another pair of hands?”
“Need another spine.”
“Can’t help you there.”
His arm appeared, holding a corroded junction box.
“Take this before I throw it into the harbor.”
I accepted it.
The enclosure had once been waterproof. Now one corner was split, the gasket had hardened into something resembling black glass, and salt had eaten half the terminals.
“You told the owner this entire circuit needs replacing?”
“Three times.”
“And?”
“He wants to know whether we can clean it.”
I looked into the hatch.
“No.”
“That was also my answer.”
Together, we disconnected the remaining cables and lifted the ruined box out. Owen climbed after it, moving stiffly when he straightened.
“How’s Noah?”
“Asleep.”
“He made it through a brutal day yesterday.”
“He was still trying to argue with me after he stopped forming complete sentences.”
“That sounds encouraging.”
“It was less encouraging while I was carrying him upstairs.”
Owen wiped his hands on a rag.
“He remembered more, though.”
“A few things.”
I tried to keep my voice even.
The memories had arrived in scattered pieces. A family gathering. My old green overshirt. A shipment delivered to the wrong marina. Marlowe as a younger dog, leaner and less gray. The first navigation lamp Noah had installed after coming to work at the yard.
Most important, he had remembered me inside those moments.
Not as a fact.
As a person.
He remembered my voice. The feeling of my hand. The certainty that we had gone home together afterward.
The change had filled him with joy and terror in equal measure.
It had done the same to me.
Owen folded the rag over the edge of the workbench.
“Harbor Transit called.”
My attention shifted.
“What about?”
“The winter maintenance agreement.”
The contract covered electrical inspections and emergency repairs on twelve passenger launches used by the regional ferry service. It was the largest recurring job on our calendar and the one that kept payroll comfortable through the quiet months.
“They’re renewing early?”
“They want the first four vessels next week.”
“Next week?”
“They’re changing the schedule before the tourist season ends. Something about a grant deadline.”
I looked toward the open bay.
Rainwater shone across the concrete outside. Beyond the yard fence, masts leaned slightly in the wind.
“We can do it.”
Owen’s expression did not change.
“With three people?”
“Four.”
“Noah isn’t cleared for full work.”
“I meant me.”
“You’re currently running the office, taking Noah to appointments, managing the insurance claim, sleeping approximately forty minutes a night, and doing every difficult job because you’re convinced delegation is a moral failure.”
“I delegated the trawler to you.”
“You came down and immediately climbed into it.”
“I remained outside the hatch.”
“Growth.”
I set the ruined box on the bench.
“We need the contract.”
“I know.”
“I’ll call Marisol at Harbor Transit.”
“She wants an answer before three.”
“What else?”
Owen hesitated.
That was never a good sign.
“The electrical wholesaler froze our account.”
My stomach tightened.
“Which account?”
“Main trade account.”
“Why?”
“They said last month’s payment failed.”
I knew exactly why.
The insurance reimbursement had arrived, but only enough to cover wages and a portion of the van replacement. I had moved money twice to keep payroll intact, then used the remaining reserve to pay the mortgage.
The wholesaler’s debit had landed in the wrong twelve-hour window.
“I’ll fix it.”
“We need shore-power cable and isolation transformers by Friday.”
“I said I’ll fix it.”
Owen’s gaze stayed on me.
He had known me too long to mistake certainty for solvency.
“I can call my brother,” he said. “His company account—”
“No.”
“Reid.”
“No personal favors. No one risks their credit for the yard.”
“He wouldn’t mind.”
“I would.”
Owen picked up his tools.
“I told Marisol you would call. I didn’t commit us.”
“Good.”
“I also told the supplier it was probably an administrative error.”
“Also good.”
“Because that sounds better than saying the owner has been moving money between accounts like a street magician.”
I stared at him.
He gave me a bland look and walked away.
In my office, the bank balance had not improved through neglect.
I transferred enough from the equipment reserve to clear the supplier payment. That left the account intended for the new haul-out winch almost empty.
The winch could wait.
Payroll could not.
Neither could the Harbor Transit contract.
I called the wholesaler, listened to eleven minutes of hold music, apologized for the failed payment, and secured the shipment by agreeing to an earlier payment on the next order.
Then I called Marisol.
She had managed the ferry fleet for twelve years and possessed the unnerving ability to sound friendly while removing every possible avenue of negotiation.
“I heard about Noah,” she said after we exchanged greetings. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“How is he?”
“Improving.”
“I’m glad. He always handled our launch systems.”
“He will again.”
“I hope so.”
The pause contained business.
I waited.
“We still need four vessels inspected by the twenty-eighth,” she said. “Two need full shore-power isolation tests, and Number Seven has an intermittent navigation fault.”
“We can take them.”
“All four?”
“Yes.”
“With Noah out?”
I hated the question because it was reasonable.
“I’ll lead the work. Caleb and Owen know the fleet.”
“You usually have five people during turnaround.”
“We’ll bring in temporary help for mechanical support.”
That was a promise I had no money to keep.
Marisol remained silent.
I pictured her at the ferry authority offices, reading the notes from our last three contracts. Late reports. Rescheduled inspections. My absence while Noah was in the hospital.
“We’ve never failed your safety deadline,” I said.
“No.”
“And we won’t start now.”
Another silence.
“All right. I’ll send the schedule.”
I felt relief, but no pleasure.
“Thank you.”
“Reid?”
“Yes?”
“I’m trusting you because your work has always been good. Don’t make me explain that trust to the board.”
“I won’t.”
The line disconnected.
I sat for several seconds with the phone still in my hand.
The contract would bring enough revenue to stabilize the yard.
If we completed it.
If nothing else broke.
If Noah did not need me during the same hours the ferries did.
I hated thinking of those needs in competition.
They were not.
One was a person I loved.
The other was the means by which four people paid mortgages, bought groceries, and planned their lives.
Love did not erase arithmetic.
It only made the arithmetic feel cruel.
A stack of phone messages waited beside my keyboard.
A marina wanted an estimate.
A customer wanted to know why his invoice had not arrived.
The insurance adjuster needed another copy of the police report already sent twice.
I answered the urgent calls, sent payment reminders, postponed the yard expansion, and drafted a temporary schedule that required all of us to work too many hours.
Then I went onto the floor.
Work helped.
It demanded physical answers.
A wire was damaged or it was not.
A reading fell within tolerance or it did not.
Bolts tightened. Cables terminated. Faults revealed themselves to anyone patient enough to follow the circuit.
People were more difficult.
Grief could hide beneath gratitude.
Fear could sound like anger.
A man could wake after six years of shared life had vanished from his mind and still say your private name in the dark.
By two, I had lost track of lunch.
My phone vibrated against the workbench.
NOAH: Where did you go?
The message tightened my chest despite its simplicity.
ME: Downstairs. North bay. Are you all right?
The typing indicator appeared.
Vanished.
Appeared again.
NOAH: Think so.
Not yes.
I removed my gloves.
Caleb glanced up from a wiring loom.
“Upstairs?”
“Two minutes.”
“Take ten.”
I used the stairs instead of the stair lift and found Noah transferring from the couch into his chair.
His movements were slow.
Too controlled.
Marlowe stood beside him, watching with worried brown eyes.
“Hey.”
Noah looked up.
His smile arrived a moment late.
“You were downstairs.”
“Yes.”
“I remembered after I texted.”
“That’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He settled into the chair and rubbed his temple.
His left arm was no longer in the rigid brace, though the muscles remained weak. He kept it close to his body without realizing it.
“How long have you been awake?” I asked.
“Not long.”
“Headache?”
“Three.”
“Any nausea?”
“Little.”
“When did you eat?”
He looked toward the kitchen.
The answer was obvious.
I checked the medication organizer.
The midday compartment remained full.
“Noah.”
“I forgot.”
“You didn’t get the alarm?”
“What alarm?”
I had set one on his phone the previous night.
The phone sat on the far end of the coffee table, screen dark.
He had fallen asleep before plugging it in.
I crossed to the refrigerator.
“What sounds manageable?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That was not the question.”
He sighed.
“Something cold.”
I assembled turkey, cheese, cucumber, and mustard on soft bread. I added crackers, grapes, and one of the small yogurt drinks Maeve recommended when solid food felt like work.
Noah came into the kitchen while I was cutting the sandwich.
“I should do this.”
“You’re dizzy and overdue for medication.”
“I can make a sandwich.”
“I know.”
“Then move.”
I turned.
He looked pale and furious.
Not at me.
At the body that had failed to send hunger until nausea arrived.
At the sleeping phone.
At the fact that one missed routine still had consequences.
I stepped aside.
Noah rolled to the counter.
He picked up the knife in his right hand and looked at the sandwich.
“What needs doing?”
“Cut it.”