Chapter 6 Dependency #2
The nurse crossed her arms.
"How's your favorite mechanic?"
There it was.
Finn sighed.
"Complicated."
Rebecca looked surprised.
"That's new."
The doctor leaned back in his chair.
Thinking.
Searching for the right words.
The truth felt difficult to explain.
Because medically, Deck continued improving.
The injuries healed.
Strength returned.
Mobility increased.
The recovery itself remained encouraging.
Emotionally, however, things felt different.
"He had a rough session earlier this week."
Rebecca nodded.
Understanding immediately.
The nurse had worked with enough patients to recognize the pattern.
Progress wasn't always physical.
Sometimes the hardest part involved accepting limitations.
Especially temporary ones.
"How's he handling it?"
Finn looked toward the rain-covered window.
Poorly.
Very poorly.
The realization settled heavily inside his chest.
"Not well."
Rebecca studied him for several moments.
Then sighed.
"Men."
The word carried decades of frustration.
The doctor laughed softly.
"That's a broad category."
"It's an accurate category."
The nurse stood.
Collecting her files.
Heading back toward work.
Before leaving, she paused near the door.
"Just don't let him isolate himself."
The advice sounded casual.
The expression on her face wasn't.
Finn understood immediately.
The nurse had seen similar situations before.
Recovery often became lonely.
Pain often became lonely.
People frequently disappeared into that loneliness.
Especially stubborn people.
Especially proud people.
Especially mechanics who hated asking for help.
The office fell silent after she left.
The conversation lingered.
Unfortunately.
Because Rebecca wasn't wrong.
The signs existed.
The withdrawal.
The distance.
The increasing silence.
Finn had noticed all of it.
The concern followed him home.
Or rather, followed him to Deck's farmhouse.
The drive through the countryside normally helped him relax.
Tonight it didn't.
Rain continued falling steadily.
Headlights cut through darkness.
The familiar road eventually appeared.
Then the farmhouse.
Then the workshop.
The first thing Finn noticed was the truck.
Deck's truck sat beside the workshop.
Expected.
The second thing he noticed was the light.
The workshop remained illuminated.
Less expected.
Especially after nine o'clock.
The doctor parked nearby.
Rain drummed against the windshield.
For several moments he remained seated.
Watching.
Thinking.
The farmhouse itself looked dark.
Empty.
The workshop glowed softly against the night.
Something felt wrong.
The feeling settled deeper when he stepped outside.
Cold rain immediately soaked his jacket.
The workshop door stood partially open.
A faint light spilled across wet gravel.
No music.
No tools.
No engine noise.
Just silence.
Finn frowned.
The silence bothered him.
Because Deck normally worked.
If he was in the workshop, something was happening.
Tonight, nothing happened.
The doctor moved closer.
Rain dripped from the roof overhead.
The familiar smell of oil and metal drifted through the open doorway.
Then he saw him.
Deck sat alone beside a workbench.
Motionless.
A half-restored engine rested nearby.
Various tools occupied the table.
Nothing had been touched.
Not recently.
The mechanic simply sat there staring.
The sight immediately made Finn's chest tighten.
Because loneliness had a particular shape.
And this looked exactly like it.
The doctor stepped inside quietly.
The workshop remained warm despite the weather.
The mechanic didn't look up.
Didn't move.
Didn't acknowledge his presence.
Which told Finn more than words ever could.
Normally, Deck noticed everything.
Tonight he seemed lost somewhere else.
"Deck."
The name broke the silence gently.
The mechanic finally looked up.
The sight startled him.
Not because of visible injuries.
Because of the expression.
Exhaustion.
Defeat.
Something dangerously close to hopelessness.
The emotions disappeared quickly.
Almost immediately.
But Finn had already seen them.
The doctor moved closer.
Stopping several feet away.
Close enough.
Not intrusive.
"What are you doing out here?"
The question sounded harmless.
The answer didn't.
"Thinking."
The single word carried enough weight to sink a ship.
Finn glanced toward the workbench.
The engine.
The untouched tools.
The entire scene suddenly made sense.
The workshop represented everything Deck feared losing.
Every dream.
Every skill.
Every piece of identity.
The realization hurt.
The mechanic looked away again.
Toward the engine.
Toward the tools.
Toward a future he no longer trusted.
The silence stretched.
Rain continued falling outside.
Eventually Finn sat on a nearby stool.
Neither man spoke.
Sometimes silence mattered.
Sometimes people needed space.
The doctor understood that.
Several minutes passed.
Then Deck laughed.
A short sound.
Humorless.
Broken.
The sound immediately made Finn look up.
The mechanic rubbed a hand across his face.
The movement looked tired.
Older somehow.
"I used to rebuild these."
The statement came out quietly.
Finn followed his gaze.
The engine.
The project.
The life.
Everything represented there.
"I know."
Another laugh followed.
This one worse.
The mechanic stared at his hands.
Scars visible beneath workshop lighting.
The sight seemed to fascinate him.
Or haunt him.
Maybe both.
"I could take one apart blindfolded."
The words sounded distant.
Like memories.
Not reality.
The doctor remained silent.
Listening.
Deck swallowed hard.
His throat visibly tightened.
The next words emerged rough.
Painful.
Honest.
"I don't even know if I can hold a wrench properly."
The confession settled heavily between them.
The workshop suddenly felt smaller.
The air heavier.
The doctor watched as frustration slowly transformed into something far more dangerous.
Grief.
Real grief.
Not for a person.
For a life.
For certainty.
For the man Deck used to be.
The realization landed hard.
Because grief didn't only come from death.
Sometimes it came from change.
From loss.
From fear.
The mechanic looked down at his hands again.
For several moments, neither moved.
Then something inside him finally broke.
Not dramatically.
Not violently.
Quietly.
The way strong people usually fell apart.
His shoulders slumped.
His head lowered.
The fight disappeared.
All of it.
The anger.
The sarcasm.
The stubbornness.
Gone.
Leaving only pain.
Raw and unprotected.
The sight shattered Finn's heart.
Because suddenly Declan Harlan didn't look like a difficult patient.
He didn't look intimidating.
He didn't look scary.
He looked like a man terrified that the only thing he knew how to be was slipping away.
And for the first time since arriving in Willow Ridge, Finn found him sitting alone in the workshop, silently breaking beneath the weight of his injuries.
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