The shed smelled of oil and sawdust and old rain, and the work light Mr. Alderman hung from the beam threw a hard yellow circle over the motorcycle's rear wheel. Garrett worked with his sleeves pushed up, his tattooed forearms steady, while Alderman handed him tools and watched with the appraising eye of a man who knew good work when he saw it. Eli and June stood in the doorway, just inside the dry, watching, because Sandra's terms allowed watching from the doorway and Eli had no intention of testing the edges of that permission.
The chain's done, Alderman said, after a while, holding up the snapped length so the light caught it. "Snapped clean at a weak link. You could rivet it, but I wouldn't trust it past the county line."
Garrett nodded. "I wouldn't either. I need a new chain. Proper one."
Nearest place that'll have it is Hal's Cycle Shop in Springfield, Alderman said. "Forty miles. I can call in the morning and have them send one, but it'll take days. Two, three, maybe four, with the weather the way it is."
Garrett was quiet for a moment, his hands resting on the motorcycle's seat. He looked at the bike, at the tools laid out in a neat row on the workbench, at Alderman, and then, almost without meaning to, at the doorway, where Eli stood with his green eyes fixed on the chain in Alderman's hand.
Days, Garrett said. "All right. Days it is."
He did not swear. He did not kick anything. He simply accepted it, the way he had accepted the rain and the dead zone and the snapped chain, with the long, slow exhale of a man who had learned that some things could not be hurried. Alderman nodded, as if this were the correct response, and began putting the tools away in their places, each one wiped and set down with care.
You'll need a place to stay, Alderman said. "Cedar Motel, in town, is clean and cheap. Ask for the room at the back, it's quieter."
I'll do that, Garrett said. "And I'll come back each day to work in the shed, if Mrs. Pruitt allows it. There's plenty here that wants fixing besides my bike, from the look of things."
Alderman glanced at him, a quick, shrewd look. "There's always plenty that wants fixing," he said. "Sandra runs a tight place, but the building's old, and old buildings keep their own counsel."
Garrett smiled then, a real smile, small and brief, and it changed his face entirely, softening the beard and the tattoos and the size of him into something that looked, for a moment, almost gentle. "Then I'll be useful while I'm here," he said. "It's the least I can do for the loan of a dry shed."
When the tools were put away and the motorcycle covered with a tarp Alderman produced from a hook on the wall, Garrett stepped out of the shed into the rain, which had eased from a hammering curtain to a steady, cold drizzle. Sandra stood at the kitchen door, watching, her arms crossed, her apron still on. Garrett stopped in front of her, rain dripping from his beard, and spoke plainly.
Thank you, ma'am. For the shed, and for the terms. I'll be at the Cedar Motel tonight, and I'll be back in the morning, if that's all right.
Sandra studied him for a moment, the way she studied everything that came onto her grounds, and then she nodded. "Morning's fine, Mr. Holloway. Mr. Alderman will be here."
Garrett thanked her again, and then he turned to Alderman, and the two men shook hands in the rain like men who had done a day's work together, even though the work had barely begun. Alderman pulled the shed door to, leaving the motorcycle covered and dry in the dark, and for a moment the three of them stood in the yard while the rain eased and the evening gathered itself around the home. Sandra watched from the kitchen door, her arms crossed, her apron still on, and Eli could not tell what she was thinking, which was unusual, because usually he could tell. "Tomorrow, then," Garrett said, and he said it to Eli as much as to anyone, looking at him directly, the way he had looked at him on the road. "First thing," Alderman said. "We'll call Springfield before breakfast."
Garrett nodded back, turned, and walked off into the rain toward the Cedar Motel, his boots making soft, heavy sounds on the wet gravel, his leather vest dark against the gray evening. He did not look back. Eli stood in the shed doorway, June beside him, and watched him go, all the way to the side gate, all the way to the road, until the rain and the gathering dark took him the way they had taken Cedar Hill Road that afternoon — not all at once, but gradually, the way something large and real disappears when you are not ready for it to be gone.
June nudged him with her elbow. "He'll come back," she said, with the absolute certainty of a ten-year-old who had decided how the world would behave.
Eli said nothing. He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, watching the empty road, and for the first time in a long time, he was not thinking about how to disappear. He was thinking about tomorrow morning, and about a chain, and about a man who had looked at him, directly, and said thank you as if he meant it.
Morning came to Millhaven in the thin, washed-out light that follows a hard rain. The storm had spent itself in the night, and Cedar Hill Road lay dark and shining, puddles holding pieces of the sky. Eli woke to the sound of the other boys in his room whispering, which was unusual, because in the morning the boys in his room were usually too busy elbowing each other for the bathroom to whisper about anything.