Chapter 2 Red Dust and Rough Hands #2
Writing.
Learning.
Occasionally getting in the way.
Mason noticed every time.
Like now.
The kid was attempting to photograph a clay mixer while standing directly where workers needed to pass.
A laborer carrying materials nearly collided with him.
"Eli."
The younger man looked up.
"Huh?"
"Move."
"Oh."
Eli stepped aside immediately.
"Sorry."
The worker continued walking.
Mason shook his head.
The kid was smart.
Clearly educated.
Yet common sense seemed to disappear whenever he became interested in something.
A few minutes later, Eli approached carrying a bottle of water.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
Eli rolled his eyes.
Mason ignored the tiny spark of amusement threatening to appear.
"What do you actually do here?" Eli asked.
Mason frowned.
"Work."
"I noticed."
"I'm glad."
"I mean specifically."
The younger man gestured toward the yard.
"Everyone comes to you when there's a problem."
Mason considered the question.
"Operations supervisor."
"So you're basically in charge."
"No."
The answer came immediately.
"Rick's in charge."
"But everybody listens to you."
That observation caught Mason off guard.
He hadn't thought about it before.
Maybe because it felt normal.
After enough years somewhere, certain things simply became part of life.
"I've been here longer than most."
Eli nodded thoughtfully.
"You like it?"
The question surprised him.
Nobody ever asked that.
Most people assumed work was something you endured.
Not something you liked.
Mason glanced across the yard.
At the kilns.
The workers.
The endless rows of bricks.
"This place helped me get my life together."
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Eli's expression softened.
"Then yeah," Mason said. "I guess I like it."
Something about the younger man's attention made conversations feel different.
Most people listened because they were waiting to talk.
Eli listened because he genuinely wanted to understand.
It was strangely disarming.
Mason didn't like it.
Not one bit.
The less personal this arrangement became, the better.
For both of them.
The afternoon heat intensified.
By two o'clock, the yard felt like an oven.
Workers moved more slowly.
Sweat soaked through shirts.
The air itself seemed heavy.
Eli was struggling.
Mason could see it.
The kid tried to hide it.
Unfortunately, he wasn't very good at it.
His movements had become sluggish.
His posture slightly drooped.
Several times he stopped to wipe sweat from his face.
Yet he stubbornly refused to complain.
Mason respected that.
Even if it was foolish.
"You need a break."
Eli looked up from his notebook.
"I'm fine."
"You said that yesterday."
A pause.
"Fair."
"Go sit down."
"I still have questions."
"You'll survive."
Eli reluctantly obeyed.
For some reason, that felt like a victory.
Mason continued working.
Half an hour later he found himself near the break area where several workers were eating late lunches.
The moment he approached, conversation shifted.
Never a good sign.
Jake Turner sat at one of the picnic tables.
Beside him were three other workers.
All of them looked amused.
Which was another bad sign.
Jake nodded toward Eli.
"Your new best friend looks miserable."
Mason followed his gaze.
Eli sat alone beneath a shaded awning, focused on his notes.
"Leave him alone."
Jake laughed.
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
That only encouraged him.
"He won't last a week."
The others chuckled.
"Probably not."
"Kid looks like he gets tired carrying groceries."
More laughter.
Mason remained silent.
For now.
Jake leaned back in his chair.
"You know what the funniest part is?"
Nobody answered.
Jake answered anyway.
"He actually thinks these people are going to tell him anything."
One of the men snorted.
"He'll write his little paper and disappear."
"Just like every Bennett."
Mason felt irritation stir.
Not because of the jokes.
Workers joked.
That was normal.
But there was something unnecessarily cruel about the conversation.
Something unfair.
Eli hadn't done anything wrong.
The kid had spent two days trying harder than most visitors ever bothered to.
He listened.
Respected boundaries.
Worked through the heat.
Asked questions.
Yet none of that mattered because of his last name.
Jake shook his head.
"Maybe he'll write a book."
Another laugh.
"'Life Among the Poor People.'"
That did it.
Mason set down the paperwork he had been carrying.
The table fell silent.
Everyone immediately recognized the warning signs.
Years of experience had taught them when Mason's patience was running out.
"Enough."
Jake blinked.
"What?"
"I said enough."
The amusement disappeared.
Mason folded his arms.
"The kid hasn't caused any problems."
Nobody spoke.
"He shows up early."
Still silence.
"He listens."
Jake shifted uncomfortably.
"He works harder than half the visitors we've had."
The workers exchanged looks.
Mason wasn't finished.
"And if any of you spent less time talking and more time working, we'd be done with today's shipment already."
A few winced.
That landed exactly where he intended.
Jake sighed dramatically.
"You're taking this awfully personally."
"No."
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly.
Mason ignored the thought.
"I'm tired of hearing grown men complain about a college kid who hasn't done anything."
Nobody argued.
Because nobody had a good argument.
The truth was simple.
Eli hadn't earned their trust yet.
That was fair.
Trust took time.
But he hadn't earned their hostility either.
There was a difference.
Mason grabbed his paperwork.
As he turned away, he noticed movement across the yard.
Eli looked up from his notebook.
Their eyes met briefly.
Just for a second.
Long enough for Mason to wonder if the kid had overheard any of that conversation.
Long enough for something uncomfortable to settle in his chest.
Then Eli smiled.
Small.
Grateful.
Genuine.
And for reasons Mason couldn't explain, that smile felt far more dangerous than any problem waiting for him elsewhere in the yard.
· ? ·