Page 30 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

He gives me that look anyway.

The Switchback Inn sits tucked off the road, but I don’t pull in. Not before I do what I do every time I come back. Make my rounds, take stock of my people, remind myself the place is still here.

I turn toward Last Mile.

The garage is loud before you even see it. Metal clanging. A radio arguing with itself. An engine coughing, offended that someone even tried to start it.

I pull into the lot and climb down from the cab, Bolt hopping out behind me with a grunt. His joints don’t love the leap the way they used to. He shakes himself out, ears flopping, then trots straight toward the bay door.

“Alright, alright,” I mutter, grabbing my cap and tugging it lower. “Go on then, you impatient menace.”

Bolt disappears into the garage fast as a furry missile.

I open the glove compartment and grab the small stack of postcards I picked up on this run, which I stashed there earlier. Stupid habit. Sentimental. A grown man collecting postcards as if I’m a tourist.

But they matter to me.

Each town I pass through, I take a piece. A little proof I was there. A little reminder of the roads I’ve driven and the places that held me, even if only for a minute.

Redwood Run’s collection is thick now, held together with a rubber band and tucked in the little tin box I keep in my bunk.

I walk into the garage, and the smell hits me. Oil, steel, pine resin, and the faint tang of coffee that’s been reheated too many times. It’s a scent that says work and family all at once.

Fletcher is bent over a workbench, welding mask up, hands moving with his usual quiet precision. Hank’s perched on a stool nearby, pretending he’s doing something while he’s actually watching Fletcher work.

Bolt barrels right into Hank’s shins.

“Jeez…!” Hank yelps, stumbling. “Bolt! What the hell, man?”

Bolt wags his tail and sneezes directly on him.

“Rex!” Hank says, pointing accusingly. “Tell your dog he’s a menace.”

“He’s old,” I say, strolling in with a smirk. “He’s allowed.”

“I’m old too,” Hank argues.

I look him over slowly. “Son, you’re barely finished cookin’.”

Hank flips me off.

Fletcher glances up, a corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re back.”

“Sure am.” I spread my arms, presenting myself. “Try not to faint from excitement.”

Fletcher snorts softly, which is about as close to a laugh as he gives anyone before noon. “How was the run?”

“Long,” I say. “Hotter than hell in Texas. Rain like God was angry in Alabama. And Florida…”

I pause dramatically.

Fletcher’s brows lift. Hank leans in as if I’m about to tell a ghost story.

“Florida is Florida,” I finish solemnly.

Hank makes a face. “That bad?”

“Worse,” I confirm. “My brother tried to set me up with his neighbor’s cousin’s friend’s daughter.”