Vanna's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "Leah Mercer."
"I know."
"Youflirtedwith him."
"I did not flirt. It was an observation. A factual, medically adjacent observation about our shared scar placement."
"That's the most Leah way to flirt I've ever heard, and I love it."
"I hate you."
"You love me. What did he do?"
I pause. Because what he did—that almost-smile that went further than I'd ever seen it go, those three words in that low voice, the softening around his eyes—feels too big to hand over casually, even to Vanna.
It feels like something I should keep for a while. Hold it up to the light in private and figure out what I'm looking at before I let someone else see it.
"He smiled," I say. "Sort of."
"Coin smiled?"
"Sort of."
"That man hasn't smiled since the Steelers won the Superbowl against the Cardinals, and that was in 2009."
"It was more of a... mouth thing."
"A mouth thing." Vanna picks up the onesie again. She's grinning so wide it's a miracle Waylon doesn't wake up from the sheer force of it. "Okay. Sure. A mouth thing."
"I'm going to find Garrett now."
"You do that. Tell your brother about the mouth thing."
"I will absolutelynotbe doing that."
I find Garrett in the garage, because that's where Garrett always is when the world is too much—elbow-deep in some engine, grease up his forearms, working through whatever's in his head with his hands instead of his words.
He's under the hood of a Dyna that's seen better years, and he doesn't look up when I lean against the workbench next to him.
"Hey."
"Hey."
I let him work for a minute.
The garage smells like oil and metal and the cold October air coming through the open bay door.
There's something comforting about it—the rhythm of Garrett's hands, the clink of tools, the way he moves through mechanical problems the same way he moves through everything else.
Methodically. Completely. One step at a time until it's fixed.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"You're going to whether I say yes or not."
"The ODs. At Ruby Memorial. You know about them, don't you?"
His hands slow on the engine. They don't stop—just slow. "What do you mean?"
