“Maybe,” I crouched down to inspect the hydraulic lines. No visible leaks, no obvious damage. “Bucket’s not responding clean. Could be air in the system, could be the pump wearing out.”
“How do you know which?”
“Process of elimination,” I grabbed a catch pan and positioned it under the hydraulic reservoir. “Check fluid level first, bleed the lines, test response. If it’s still acting up, probably the pump.”
Dad appeared in the doorway while I was draining a sample ofhydraulic fluid into a clear container. “How’s it looking?”
“This one’s got hydraulic issues. Sluggish lift, drops too fast.” I held up the fluid sample to the light. “Fluid’s clean though. No metal shavings, no discoloration.”
“Air in the lines?”
“That’d be my guess. I’ll bleed it, see if that fixes the response.”
Dad nodded. “Need help?”
“I’ve got it.”
He glanced at Elena, gave her a polite nod, then headed back toward the main barn.
The bleeding process took twenty minutes—checking each connection point, working air out of the system. Elena watched the whole time, making occasional notes.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked at length.
I tested the lever again. Smooth this time, proper resistance. “Whether this fix is gonna hold or if I should tell Dad to order a new pump as backup.”
“No, I mean what are you thinking about while you work.”
I wiped my forehead with the back of my arm. “That the hydraulics on these ATVs are simpler than aircraft systems but the principle’s the same. That I know how to diagnose this because I spent years maintaining equipment more complex than this.” I met her eyes. “That this is something I’m still good at.”
“Your dad trusts your judgment.”
“He does.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“No,” I wiped my hands again, considering. “Dad’s always trusted me with equipment. That hasn’t changed.”
“But you thought it might?”
“I thought a lot of things might change,” I stood, testing my weight on my left leg—stiff from crouching but manageable. “Turns out some things don’t.”
Elena stood too, tucking her notepad under her arm. “You just diagnosed and fixed a mechanical problem, taught me the process while you did it, and your father trusted you to handle it without supervision. That’s competence, Finn.”
“It’s an ATV, not a fighter jet.”
“It’s proof your knowledge is intact. Your problem-solving ability. Your capacity to teach.” She headed toward the door. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. But I want you to sit with that for now—what you just demonstrated without even realizing it.”
She left me standing there in the equipment barn, hydraulic fluid on my hands, her words sitting heavier than I wanted them to.
That evening’s family dinner felt odd with Elena there, observing us. She sat between Mom and Elowyn, asking questions about the ranch operation, how the family had adapted when Dom and I left for our respective careers. Normal conversation—the kind guests sometimes initiated. But Elena wasn’t a guest.
She was cataloging and indexing and dissecting everything.
Dad’s conversation style. The sibling dynamics. How Alex and I moved around each other—the casual touches, the way we read each other’s cues.
When Elena asked how Alex was finding life on a ranch, she gave a wry smile, “I’m terrible at most of it, but I’m learning to be okay with being terrible at things that don’t matter to my actual life.”
The whole table laughed. I caught Elena’s slight smile, caught her scribbling something on the small notepad beside her plate.
