A hawk feather beneath them.
“Carver’s cousin made it last night,” Jimmy said.
“Carver drew the design.”
He shifted.
“It’s not a membership patch.”
Sky listened.
“You’re not a member.”
“That’s another road and another conversation.”
Jimmy searched for the correct word.
“This is…”
He frowned.
“A belonging patch.”
Sky stared at him.
“It means you’re here.”
Jimmy held it out.
“You’re ours in the sense that anybody who needs to know you belong here can look at this and understand.”
Sky stared at the leather in his palm.
“I’ve never belonged anywhere.”
Very quiet.
Jimmy nodded.
“I know.”
He held the patch slightly closer.
“That changes today.”
Sky took it with both hands.
She studied it.
Around her stood men who had known Luther.
Men who watched her arrive five days earlier with a backpack, a brush case, and more nerve than many people twice her age.
They all understood, in their own way, what it meant to be claimed by a place.
Recognized.
Told that you were no longer alone.
Not here.
Not while they were standing.
Sky looked up.
Gregory.
Jimmy.
Devlin.
Rico.
Strand.
Carver.
The others.
“Thank you.”
Simple.
No performance.
Too true for performance.
Jimmy nodded.
“Now get back to work.”
He pointed toward Devlin.
“His Road King needs a fender, and he’s asked me about it every four hours.”
“It’s been two days,” Devlin protested.
“Every four hours,” Jimmy confirmed.
Sky laughed.
Actually laughed.
Full.
Unguarded.
The first time in five days.
The armor dropped all the way.
Several men would remember that sound later.
They would never be able to explain it properly.
Only that inside Garland’s Garage, with Luther Hart painted across the wall and the smell of engine oil and fresh paint in the air, Sky’s laughter sounded like an ending and a beginning happening at exactly the same time.
She returned to her bench.
She opened the brush case.
She ran her fingers along the organized handles.
Everything labeled.
Maintained.
Ordered.
The opposite of the life she had lived before walking through that side door.
Then she selected a brush.
Outside, something large and loud passed on the highway.
The floor vibrated briefly.
Then settled.
Skyla Hart stood in her brother’s jacket.
Her brother’s image on the wall behind her.
His people around her.
The belonging patch in her pocket.
She touched brush to metal.
And began.
She was no longer running.
No longer looking over her shoulder.
No longer counting days or measuring how long she could remain somewhere before needing to move again.
She was here.
She was working.
She was home.
And this time, she intended to stay.