The father laughed.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
The boy smiled.
“Me neither.”
But the legal reality was more complicated.
The forty-percent Project Twelve rights had passed through the fabrication lead’s estate.
Then his son.
Then the father’s late wife.
Now, depending on wills and survivorship, portions belonged to the boy through his mother.
The single father had custodial control but not absolute ownership.
Corporate patent lawyers began calculating historical value.
Project Twelve itself never entered production.
But several designs later commercialized by the corporation appeared derived from its engineering.
Suspension architecture.
A modular crash structure.
A steering linkage.
Not exact copies.
But enough that lawyers argued about derivative rights.
Numbers became absurd.
Twenty million.
Fifty.
Maybe more.
The father stopped the first meeting.
“My son is twelve.”
The attorneys nodded.
“He does not need to hear that number.”
The CEO agreed.
A court-supervised trust was established while claims were reviewed.
The boy asked:
“Are we rich?”
The father replied:
“You have homework.”
“That is not answer.”
“It is tonight.”
The CEO laughed from across the garage office.
By then she was spending more time there than anyone expected.
Initially because the prototype had to be cataloged.
Then because the company’s independent investigation required historical interviews.
Then because she simply wanted to.
The garage became the place where her father felt most real.
Not the corporate museum with polished photographs.
Not the headquarters lobby containing a bronze bust she had always secretly hated.
Here there were hand-marked tools.
Notes.
A dent on the prototype’s chassis where he had apparently thrown a wrench during a test.
The fabrication lead’s handwriting calling him “stubborn idiot” beside a suspension measurement.
She began coming without the pink dresses.
Jeans.
Work boots.
Hair tied back.
The first time the single father saw her dressed for actual garage work, he said:
“You own jeans.”
She stared.
“Did you think I sleep in evening clothes?”
The boy answered:
“Maybe.”
She threw a shop rag at him.
He ducked.
The father smiled.
The three formed a strange routine.
The CEO wanted the prototype restored immediately.
The father refused.
“Evidence first.”
“Forensics cleared mechanical work.”
“Not all.”
“Then clean it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t know original finish.”
“It is covered in dust.”
“Dust is data.”
She stared.
“You enjoy saying things like that.”
“Yes.”
The boy looked up.
“He admitted it.”
Eventually, conservation specialists created a plan.
No repaint.
No cosmetic over-restoration.
Mechanical systems would be stabilized.
Fluids inspected.
Engine bores scoped.