Tommy spoke then, quietly. “My uncle used to say the road is good at teaching you about ending. That maybe endings are just places you stop to look around.” He smiled, small and real. “Guess he was right.”
Kait watched him with an expression that was part mischief and part worry. “Tommy gets sentimental. Dangerous thing,” she said, and the two of them laughed.
Tru looked at Kait. She shrugged, smiling that same match-struck laugh. “If it’s something weird, you get free pie,” she said. The way she said it made the offer feel like a small pact.
Tru took to the truck as if it were answering a question he hadn’t known he was asking. Under the hood, months of dirt and neglect became a map. Tommy taught him to read that map slowly, like an old language. Kait became the cataloger—labels on jars, parts laid out like tiny altars. She’d slide the next piece over with her pencil tucked behind her ear and a look that said, This is important. She had an endless supply of encouragement, and sometimes she had a sharp nudge when Tommy stalled.