But it moved the line between difficult and disaster.
I sat back.
For the first time in days, my lungs filled completely.
Caleb smiled.
“Manageable?”
I looked toward the ceiling.
Directly above us, Noah slept in the apartment we had made together, his journal beside him, his arm free of its brace, his mind slowly finding ways through the missing years.
“Yes,” I said.
This time, it was true.
Chapter 17
REID
Owen was halfway inside the engine compartment of a forty-two-foot trawler when I found him.
Only his boots and the back of his coveralls remained visible above the open hatch. A portable work light threw hard white shadows across the machinery space, and the bilge smelled of diesel, hot insulation, and the citrus solvent Caleb insisted was less toxic than the old stuff.
I crouched beside the hatch.
“Need another pair of hands?”
“Need another spine.”
“Can’t help you there.”
His arm appeared, holding a corroded junction box.
“Take this before I throw it into the harbor.”
I accepted it.
The enclosure had once been waterproof. Now one corner was split, the gasket had hardened into something resembling black glass, and salt had eaten half the terminals.
“You told the owner this entire circuit needs replacing?”
“Three times.”
“And?”
“He wants to know whether we can clean it.”
I looked into the hatch.
“No.”
“That was also my answer.”
Together, we disconnected the remaining cables and lifted the ruined box out. Owen climbed after it, moving stiffly when he straightened.
“How’s Noah?”
