Owen pointed at it.
“That is not fair.”
“This is adaptive engineering.”
“You have an electric motor.”
“You have fear.”
Gavin stood beside me as the three of them lined up.
“Should I ask what’s happening?”
“No.”
Caleb counted down.
Noah won by several yards.
He raised both arms in triumph and nearly drove into a stack of fenders.
I caught the back of the chair before impact.
He laughed so hard he had to hold his ribs.
The sound filled the yard.
A week earlier, I had watched him lose speech in a hospital room.
Now he was arguing that electric assistance constituted tactical intelligence.
The contrast hurt in the best way.
Gavin followed my gaze.
“Head injury?”
“Yes.”
“The man from the newspaper story?”
“Yes.”
For a single second, his expression changed.
Then it was gone.
“He has good design instincts.”
“He’s very good.”
Gavin left after noon with an order for two lift platforms, a rotating gantry, and four rolling stools because apparently everyone expected future races.
Noah should have gone upstairs.
Instead, I found him beside Mercy.
The cedar runabout rested on blocks near the south doors, her canvas folded over the stern. We had polished the hull while Noah was still in the hospital. The brass needed attention. The engine had not been started in months.
