“Thanks, junior,” he said, grinning as he attacked the tangled mess of copper wire. “You know, when I started working with Gideon, I thought we'd just be fixing cars all day. Nobody mentioned the electrical engineering degree I'd need.”
“That's because you don't have an electrical engineering degree,” Mason pointed out from his position near the main breaker panel. His coveralls were somehow cleaner than mine, a mystery I'd never solved despite working alongside him for months.
“Details,” Cal waved dismissively. “I've got practical experience. That's worth more than some fancy diploma.”
“Practical experience that nearly electrocuted you last month,” I said, surprising myself by joining their conversation. Something about these two made words easier, made the careful barriers I maintained feel less necessary.
Cal clutched his chest dramatically. “That was one time. And I barely got singed.”
“You lit your eyebrows on fire,” Mason said dryly, never looking up from his methodical work on the electrical panel.
“A minor singeing incident,” Cal corrected. “Hardly worth mentioning.”
“You keep fixing engines like that, boy, you'll have more respect than your father did at his current position,” Gideon's voice carried from across the room where he was mending a broken chair.
I grunted in response, because acknowledging the compliment felt dangerous. Respect was a double-edged sword in Hollow Pines, especially when your last name was Callahan.
“This piece of shit should run for another fifty thousand miles now,” I said, wiping the last of the grease from thecarburetor and setting it aside. “Assuming someone doesn't try to use it for hauling lumber through the forest again.”
“That was one time,” Gideon said, but there was amusement in his voice. “And we needed those supplies.”
“You needed a bigger truck,” all three of us said in unison, then broke into laughter that echoed off the Lodge's wooden walls.
“Bigger trucks cost money,” Gideon continued once the laughter died down. “Fixed trucks cost time and stubbornness, both of which Evan's got in abundance.”
“Speaking of abundance,” Cal said, straightening up from the junction box with satisfaction, “this wiring job is going to be a work of art. The Lodge's electrical system will purr like a contented cat.”
“Cats don't purr when they're electrocuted,” Mason observed.
“They also don't typically interact with electrical systems,” Cal shot back. “It's called a metaphor, my literal friend.”
I looked around at the three men who'd somehow become the most important people in my life, watching their easy banter with something that felt suspiciously like contentment. Working alongside them had taught me how to fix things that were broken beyond repair, how to find value in work that didn't require a college degree or family connections or any of the other advantages that came with being a Callahan.
They'd given me something I'd never had before: the ability to be useful without being special.
“Speaking of stubborn,” Gideon continued, setting down his tools and brushing sawdust from his hands, “the Lodge's main electrical connection has been acting up again. Might need a complete overhaul.”
The comment was casual, but I caught the undercurrent of something more significant. Gideon had a way of mentioningproblems that needed solving while leaving it up to us to volunteer for the work.
“I can handle that,” I said, already mentally cataloging the tools we'd need. “Probably a grounding issue.”
“Or the wiring is older than dirt,” Cal added, coiling up extension cords with practiced efficiency. “Some of these connections haven't been updated since the Lodge was built.”
“Dirt doesn't have an age,” Mason pointed out.
“Neither do you, technically, but that doesn't stop you from acting ancient half the time,” Cal replied cheerfully.
I packed up my equipment with the methodical care that Gideon had drilled into me over the time we'd worked together. Everything had its place, every tool cleaned and stored where it belonged. Order was important when your workspace was also your sanctuary, when the rhythm of maintenance was the closest thing you had to meditation.
The main room of the Lodge hummed with afternoon energy, a mix of locals nursing beers and Lodge guests trying to decide between the burger special and Martha's famous pot roast. I nodded to the handful of people who caught my eye, accepting their greetings with the careful balance I'd learned to maintain between approachable and professional.
Most days I felt like I was performing a character I'd never quite learned to inhabit, playing some role while never being entirely sure what that was supposed to look like.
“Evan,” called Beth from behind the bar, gesturing toward a stack of invoices. “Could you look at these when you get a chance? Numbers aren't adding up right.”
I took the papers without comment, scanning columns of figures that told the story of a business held together by determination and creative accounting. The Lodge wasn't struggling exactly, but it wasn't thriving either, caught in thatgray area where small-town businesses lived or died based on whether tourists decided to venture off the interstate.
“Looks like someone's been double-charging for room service,” I said, finding the discrepancy after a few minutes of careful review. “Easy fix.”
