Jordyn Cox earns his road name on a Tuesday. We’re patching up the laundering system after the oil drum siphon, trying to make it airtight. He’s posted up at the bar with two ledgers, a calculator, and an untouched beer, even though he’s underage. In this life, you live hard and you love harder.
“Hey,” I say, “that report from the bakery cover come in yet?”
Jordyn tosses me a new folder. “I rewrote it. Draft’s tighter.”
I glance through it. Every number checks. Cleaner than anything I’ve ever written, and I’m the one with a law degree. “You didn’t even get a signature on this.”
Jordy smirks. “Why bother? Yours will be on the final.”
City snorts from the couch while watching a football game. “Kid rewritesmyreports now.”
“Not a kid,” Jordyn mumbles. “I’m seventeen next week.”
“You’ve been seventeen for four months,” City argues.
“I’m consistent.” Jordyn shrugs his shoulders.
I laugh. “Yeah, you are, Draft.” I slap him on the back. “That’s what we’ll call you. Because nothing gets past you unless you’ve rewritten it first.”
Draft doesn’t flinch. “I’ll update the tax shield for the dry cleaner front, then.”
“Smart ass.” But he’s ours.
You don’t notice how someone’s fading until they stop trying to hide it. At first, it’s little things. Dad misses a Sunday ride. Claims the weather's gonna turn, but it doesn’t. Says he’s working on tax records, but I find the same papers untouched on his desk a week later.
At Church, the gavel sits in front of him, collecting dust. Not once does he pick it up. Doesn’t call order. Doesn’t call anything. Just leans back in his chair like he’s waiting for something that never comes.
But he’s still there in the strategy. Still watching, eyes sharp as ever. That’s what fucks with me. Heseemsfine… until he doesn’t.
There’s this drag behind his gaze now. Like he’s looking through people instead of at them. Like everything’s costing him more than he’s letting on.
Then I catch him behind the garage one morning. The sky's still gray, dew clinging to the edges of his boots. I came out to grab my tool bag from the shed. I wasn't supposed to see him.
He’s leaned against the cinderblock wall, back hunched, one hand braced on his knee. The other covers his mouth, and when he pulls it away, the blood is bright and wet against his knuckles.
“Dad,” I say, voice low but sharp.
He flinches like I slapped him. Wipes his hand quickly against his jeans, turns half away, but I’ve already seen it. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“What the hell. Are you okay?”
“Just the damn air,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Something in it lately. Allergies, maybe.”
“Bullshit,” I snap. “Allergies don’t make you hack up blood.”
Dad straightens slowly. That stubborn jaw ticks. “You gonna start diagnosing me now? Thought you were my son, not my doctor.”
I step closer. “You’re not hiding this from me.”
He holds my stare for a long beat. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t deny it. And that’s when Iknow.
There’s blood drying on his palm. His face is pale beneath the tan. And for the first time in my life, he looks... smaller.
“Have you seen someone?” I ask, quieter now.
He exhales through his nose and looks away. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does if you plan on making it through whatever the hell this is.”
