"She said I can request a public defender if I can't afford a private attorney. But public defenders are really overworked. They've got like a hundred cases each. So, they don't always have the time or energy to really fight for you."
"Yeah, I've heard that too."
"Basically, my options are try to pay for a lawyer I can't afford, or get assigned one who doesn't have time to help me." He laughs without humor. "Great choices."
"We'll figure something out. I meant what I said about helping."
"I know. Can we table that discussion for now? Give me time to think it through?"
"Yeah. Of course." I shift on the bed. "How are you doing with all of this? Really?"
"It's terrifying if I let myself think about it too much." He's quiet. "But I'm handling it better than expected. Kept myself busy today. Stayed focused."
"That's good, Jay."
"I'm trying."
"I know you are. I can hear it in your voice."
I stretch out on the bed. "Tell me about the Harley. What was wrong with the wiring harness? Walk me through it."
He starts explaining, getting into the technical details. He's more animated, more confident. This is Jay in his element. I listen and ask questions, not because I understand even half of what he's saying, but because I love hearing him like this. Confident and engaged.
"You really love this kind of work," I say when he pauses. "With motorcycles."
"Yeah, I guess I do. It's one of the few things I'm actually good at."
"Don't say that. You're good at a lot of things. You're good at surviving impossible situations. You're good at protecting people. And you're the best at being exactly who I need."
He's quiet for a long moment. "Ivan..."
"It's true."
We talk until almost eleven. About motorcycles and dinosaurs and Rosalyn's cooking. About Caleb's volcanoes and Diana's anxiety and Destiny's astronaut dreams. About the stray orange cat. About everything until we're finally talked out for the day.
When we finally hang up, I feel lighter.
He's trying.
Maybe this is going to work after all.
Chapter 38: Jay
Tuesday morning, I'm under a Sportster when I finally work up the nerve to ask the question that's been burning in my brain since yesterday.
Mick is at the workbench across the shop, cleaning carburetor parts with the same methodical patience he brings to everything. Piece by piece, soaking each one in solvent, scrubbing with a wire brush, laying them out in order on a clean rag. The shop radio is playing classic rock—Led Zeppelin or maybe The Who, turned low enough to be background noise. It's just the two of us, like it usually is. Like it almost always is.
"Hey, Mick?" I call out from under the bike.
"Yeah."
I slide out from under the Sportster, wiping my greasy hands on a rag that's seen better days. "Can I ask you something? Something kind of personal?"
He looks up from the carburetor parts, eyebrows raised. In the two years I've worked for him, I've never asked him anything personal. We don't have that kind of relationship. Or at least I thought we didn't. We work, we fix bikes, we exchange maybe fifty words a day total. That's it.
"Go ahead."
I take a breath, trying to figure out how to phrase this without giving too much away. "Have you ever known anyone who had a drinking problem? Someone who was able to stop? Actually quit for good?"
