Expected specific answers.
Their conversations always seemed to be building toward something, even when Ethan couldn't see the destination.
On the sixth day, Marcus asked about college.
What exactly had Ethan studied?
What had he been good at?
What pulled him toward engineering?
"Mechanical systems."
Ethan wiped his hands.
"The way things work together. How you can look at something broken and understand the whole thing by understanding the parts."
"That's what you like about it? Understanding?"
"I like that the answer is always there."
Ethan thought about it.
"You look at something mechanical and something is wrong. The problem exists. The solution exists. You just have to find the path between them."
He paused.
"It doesn't depend on somebody's opinion. It's true or it isn't."
Marcus remained quiet.
"You don't trust opinions much."
"I trust what I can verify."
Marcus gave him that steady look.
"And yet you trusted me enough to call."
Ethan didn't have an answer.
Or he did, and giving it would require more honesty than he wanted to spend in one conversation.
He turned back toward the engine.
"I didn't have other options."
"You had options," Marcus said. "You chose this one."
Then he left the statement alone.
Marcus was very good at that.
Saying exactly what needed to be said.
Not underlining it.
Not waiting for Ethan to perform understanding.
Just placing it between them and moving on.
Ethan came back to the statement that night.
Lying on the cot.
Listening to Phoenix beyond the garage.
He had chosen to call.
Among everything available to him, the shelters, the streets, the daily navigation of surviving alone, he'd called a man he'd spoken with once for approximately 40 minutes in a diner.
He didn't call because it was guaranteed.
Or practical.
Or logical.
Something about Marcus had registered as genuine.
The frequency of someone who meant exactly what he said.
Ethan hadn't trusted that instinct in a long time.
He still wasn't entirely sure he should.
But Marcus had answered.
The food had been real.
The cot was real.
The wrench in Ethan's hand that afternoon had been real.
For now, maybe that was enough evidence.
On the eighth day, Ricky came to the garage.
Ethan had heard the name but hadn't met the man.
Marcus spoke about Ricky the same way he spoke about most of his people, as though the name itself contained enough context.
Ricky was smaller than Ethan expected.
Mid-40s.
Compact.
A face that watched more than it revealed.
The kind built for collecting information rather than broadcasting it.
He shook Ethan's hand with brisk efficiency.
"Kid did good with the Haskell situation," Ricky told Marcus.
"He was there," Marcus replied.
"He didn't run."
"Neither did he panic. A lot of people panic."
Ethan stood close enough to hear.
"I've been in worse situations."
Ricky looked genuinely interested.
"Yeah?"
He studied Ethan.
"What do you do when it's worse?"
"I get quiet."
Ethan answered immediately.
"Focus on the next 5 seconds. Whatever I need to do in those 5 seconds."
Ricky looked at Marcus.
A quick side glance passed between them carrying more information than a sentence.
"Cole's gone, by the way."
Ethan looked toward Ricky.
"Left Phoenix. Not because we forced him out. Glendale got interested."
Ricky folded his arms.
"The woman involved in what happened there last spring finally made a formal report."
"That isn't because of us."
"Partly."
Ricky shrugged.