“I can actually do it?”
“Yes.”
“Not just watch?”
“You will have tools in your hands.”
He pushed his chair away from the table.
“Why are we still talking?”
We used the stair lift because I refused to let the morning begin with him spending half his energy on steps.
Noah complained about the mechanical hum.
At the bottom, Caleb looked up from the cable table.
“Look who escaped.”
“I was released under strict supervision.”
“Tragic.”
Owen opened the rear loft door.
“We prepared your throne.”
Inside, an adjustable worktable had been lowered to chair height.
The old control panel lay on a padded mat. Its black faceplate was scratched and sun-faded. Toggle switches filled the center rows. Analog gauges lined the top. A nest of disconnected wires spread from the back.
Noah stared.
The sadness left his face.
Not completely.
Enough.
He rolled closer.
“Who removed this?”
“Owen,” I said.
“No labels on the wiring.”
“He photographed everything.”
Noah looked at Owen.
“You learned.”
“I fear you.”
“Good.”
A tray of insulated tools waited beside the panel.
