Marlowe
Reid showed up at dawn exactly as instructed, and the sight of him standing awkwardly in the garage doorway, waiting for direction the same way I once had, struck me with an odd, dissonant sense of déjà vu.
"Sweep first," I told him, echoing Wrench's own words from months ago without quite meaning to. "Then we'll see what you're actually capable of."
He picked up the broom without argument, and I watched him work through the morning with a diligence that surprised me — no shortcuts, no complaints, none of the easy arrogance he'd carried through most of our earlier acquaintance.
By midday, Wrench had us both working the same engine from opposite sides, calling out instructions that forced Reid and me into a coordination neither of us had ever needed to manage before. It felt str
