The reply became louder.
Tyler winced.
“I know.”
Another pause.
“No, Mom.”
His face changed.
Marcus watched.
“No.”
Longer silence.
Then Tyler said:
“I don't think we should say that.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes.
Tyler walked several steps away.
“Mom, seriously.”
Marcus took out his own phone.
He photographed the driveway.
The car.
The door.
The detached rail.
Then he stepped carefully toward the opening.
The air inside smelled of sawdust, hot metal, and radiator fluid.
The damage was worse than he initially thought.
His table saw had been pushed sideways.
One corner of the heavy steel base had folded.
Cabinet doors were broken.
Two unfinished furniture commissions were destroyed.
A maple console table that belonged to a client had been crushed between the front bumper and the workbench.
Marcus's stomach tightened.
He stepped backward.
Tyler ended the call.
“She’s coming.”
Marcus nodded.
“I’m calling the police.”
Tyler's head snapped up.
“Do we need police?”
Marcus looked at him.
“You drove a car through a building.”
“It was an accident.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn't mean—”
“Tyler.”
Marcus's tone stopped him.
“This is not a scratched bumper.”
The teenager looked toward the wreckage.
His shoulders dropped.
“Okay.”
Marcus called.
The dispatcher took the address.
No injuries.
No fire.
No one trapped.
One vehicle into a detached residential structure.
Officer requested.
Fire department notified because of potential structural instability.
Marcus gave his name.
Then waited.
Tyler sat on the curb.
He looked younger there.
The expensive hoodie suddenly seemed like a costume borrowed from a richer, more confident person.
Marcus walked closer.
“You sure you're okay?”
Tyler nodded.
“I’m fine.”
“What happened before you hit the garage?”
Tyler looked down.
“I told you.”
“You lost control.”
“Yeah.”
“That explains nothing.”
Tyler picked at the cuff of his hoodie.
“I hit the gas.”
Marcus stared.
“Instead of the brake?”
The boy did not answer.
“Tyler.”
“I don’t know.”
Marcus noticed something.
The teenager was not merely embarrassed.
He was afraid.
Not of police.
Not of Marcus.
Of whatever his mother had said on the phone.
A black SUV turned onto the street.
Then continued past.
Marcus watched until it disappeared.
Tyler said:
“My mom will handle the insurance.”
“Good.”
“She knows people.”
Marcus looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“You said it.”
Tyler shrugged.
“She handles stuff.”
Marcus almost asked what kind of stuff required someone who knew people.
Before he could, the first police cruiser arrived.
Officer Elena Martinez stepped out.
Marcus recognized her from neighborhood events.
She had been assigned to Brookhaven Hills several times during community traffic complaints.
She looked at the garage.