Rourke looked directly at him.
“Because your father was better than I was.”
Nobody spoke.
Caleb felt his anger shift into something more painful.
That sounded like Daniel.
Too much like Daniel.
His father had once stopped in summer traffic to help a stranger change a tire.
He had paid for a woman’s groceries after her card declined.
He had repaired a neighbor’s truck for free even after the man insulted his rates.
Daniel Mercer had been infuriatingly incapable of leaving people stranded.
Caleb hated that this story fit.
“Did you thank him?”
Rourke laughed softly.
“I tried.”
“What did he say?”
“Get lost.”
Caleb almost smiled.
He fought it.
Rourke saw anyway.
“Yeah.”
“That sounds like him.”
For the first time, the tension loosened.
Only slightly.
Then Caleb asked:
“Why didn't he tell me?”
Rourke answered honestly.
“I don't know.”
Caleb looked toward the pendant beneath his hoodie.
Maybe he did know.
Daniel never talked about mistakes that hurt him.
He buried things.
Pain.
Anger.
Fear.
After his cancer diagnosis, he refused to tell Caleb for nearly two months.
When Caleb discovered the truth, Daniel said:
“I wanted you to keep being twelve a little longer.”
Even dying, he had decided silence could protect people.
Maybe Iron Ridge had been another silence.
Caleb looked at Rourke.
“Can I see where he worked?”
Rourke nodded.
“Yeah.”
He turned toward the back of the garage.
The others stayed behind.
Caleb followed.
They passed tool cabinets and a parts room until Rourke stopped near an old wooden workbench.
Unlike everything else in the shop, the bench looked ancient.
Scarred surface.
Burn marks.
Oil stains.
Names carved into the side.
Rourke pointed toward the corner.
“His station.”
Caleb approached.
He placed one hand on the wood.
There were initials carved near the edge.
DM.
Caleb traced them.
“You kept this?”
“Couldn’t throw it out.”
“Because you felt guilty?”
“Yes.”
Caleb appreciated the answer.
Rourke did not pretend otherwise.
Caleb noticed a small drawer.
He opened it.
Empty except for bolts, washers, and two rusted spark plugs.
Rourke said:
“We cleaned it years ago.”
Caleb closed the drawer.
“What was he like?”
Rourke smiled faintly.
“Annoying.”
Caleb looked at him.
“Seriously?”
“Very.”
“How?”
“He thought he knew everything.”
Caleb laughed.
“He did.”
“He absolutely did not.”
“He thought he did.”
“That part’s true.”
Rourke leaned against the bench.
“He could hear an engine idle for ten seconds and tell you which cylinder was running wrong.”
Caleb smiled despite himself.
“He used to do that.”
“He hated chrome.”
“He still hated chrome.”
“He liked old Hondas.”
“He loved them.”
“Especially seventies CBs.”
Caleb looked surprised.
“He had one.”
“Green?”
“Yes.”
Rourke’s smile widened.
“I painted that tank.”
Caleb stared.
“My dad told me he painted it.”
Rourke laughed.
“Of course he did.”
Caleb actually laughed now.
It escaped before he could stop it.
Then grief arrived underneath it.
His father suddenly existed in a world Caleb had never known.
Young Daniel.
Motorcycles.
Friends.
Mistakes.
Arguments.
A workbench.
Caleb stared at the initials again.
Rourke’s voice became quieter.
“You look exactly like him when you're mad.”
“My mom says that.”
“He had the same line between his eyebrows.”
Caleb touched his forehead unconsciously.