Marlowe
I held the corroded carburetor housing in my hands that evening, turning it over slowly, feeling the weight of everything it now represented settle into something considerably larger than its small, rusted size suggested.
"I want to keep it," I told King, once the rest of the crew had headed home for the day and it was just the two of us left in the quiet, half-built garage bay. "Not restore it, exactly. Just — mount it somewhere. Visible. Somewhere it can watch over whatever we build here."
"I like that," King said, studying the piece with me, something thoughtful in his expression. "Feels right, having both our fathers present in some way, even if it's just a rusted piece of metal neither of us actually got to know them through directly."
"Where should we put it?"
He conside
