Correct.
“What did your dad teach you?”
Noah’s shoulders lowered slightly.
“Mostly to put things back where they came from.”
“Smart man.”
“He left.”
Lucky stopped.
Noah’s guard returned instantly.
“Before what?”
Lucky asked gently.
Noah shook his head.
“Nothing.”
Lucky let it go.
“Well.”
He said.
“If you keep showing up.”
“I can teach you what parts do.”
Noah looked at him.
“Real engines?”
“Eventually.”
“When you’re older.”
“Right now, we start with things that don’t explode.”
Noah smiled.
Small.
But real.
That was the first time any of them saw it.
At six, Moose Joe Mancini walked in.
Everybody called him Moose Joe because he was six foot three, heavy through the shoulders, with a white beard that covered half his chest.
He was sixty-two.
Former vice president of the club.
Now unofficial grandfather, cookout critic, and the only person besides Tina who could tell Razer to shut up without consequences.
Joe had heard about Noah.
The story bothered him.
Eight years earlier, Joe’s son Aaron died from an overdose at twenty-seven.
People simplified Aaron’s story afterward.
Drugs.
Bad choices.
Wrong crowd.
Joe knew the longer version.
Aaron entered foster care at eleven after his mother died and Joe, then drinking heavily and barely functional, temporarily lost custody.
“Temporary” became four years.
Seven placements.
Two group homes.
One excellent foster mother who got cancer and had to stop.
Several bad placements.
By the time Joe got sober and regained stability, Aaron was sixteen and trusted almost nobody.
Father and son reconciled eventually.
Not enough.
Not before heroin taught Aaron how to stop feeling abandoned.
Joe had spent eight years wondering how many adults had seen his son hurting and decided somebody else probably had it handled.
So when he saw Noah pulling on his backpack, Joe said:
“Keller says you live on Oak Street.”
Noah stopped.
“Yes.”
“I’m heading that direction.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
Joe put on his jacket.
“Good thing I didn’t ask.”
They walked.
Noah stayed half a step ahead at first.
Then beside him.
Joe asked about school.
“Fine.”
Favorite subject?
“Science.”
Least favorite?
“Language arts.”
Friends?
Shrug.
Lunch?
Silence.
Joe changed subjects.
When Oak Street appeared, Noah’s body changed.
His shoulders curled.
His pace slowed.
Joe noticed.
The yellow house stood four homes down.
Chain-link fence rusted.
One porch step cracked.
A light on inside.
A large silhouette moved past the front window.
Noah stopped.
Joe reached into his vest.
Pulled out a business card.
The clubhouse number was printed on the front.
Joe wrote his personal number on the back.
“If you ever need someone.”
He said.
“Call.”
Noah stared at it.
“For what?”
“Whatever.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Joe smiled slightly.
“You got somewhere better to be and need a ride.”
“Call.”
“You feel unsafe.”
“Call.”
“You need somebody to sit quietly and not ask stupid questions.”
“Call.”
Noah looked suspicious.
“Why?”
Joe thought about Aaron.
Because once I failed to be there for my own kid.
Because I will spend the rest of my life trying to make peace with that.
Because you walk like a child expecting every doorway to hurt.
Instead, he said:
“Because everybody should have one number.”
Noah looked at the card.