"You look like a tattooed broomstick, Riff," Bear grunts, elbowing him in the ribs. "Zara needs a real man. Someone who can lift a transmission without complaining about his lower back."
"Hey! My back is fine!" Riff protests, splashing gravy onto his shirt.
The banter bounces around the long table like gunfire, fast, and loud, and completely uncorrected. It’s a language born of shared danger, long miles on rain-slicked asphalt, and a fierce, unspoken loyalty that binds every single person in this room together.
I sit between Jade and Tucker, eating slow bites of pork and cornbread, listening to Stitch argue with Byte about whether the garage security cameras were properly grounded, while Rook quietly reaches across the table to load more potatoes onto my plate without saying a word.
Fo
