“That is still part of being a mechanic.”
Noah followed him inside.
Their rental house was small.
Two bedrooms.
One bathroom.
A kitchen where the refrigerator door opened almost directly into the table.
Rachel’s photograph sat on a shelf above the dining area.
Noah dropped his backpack.
“Did something happen?”
Lucas opened the refrigerator.
“Why?”
“You have the face.”
“What face?”
“The other face.”
Lucas looked at him.
“How many faces do I apparently have?”
“Like six.”
Lucas laughed.
It felt strange.
He had not laughed much that month.
He pulled out ground beef, tomato sauce, and a package of spaghetti.
“I fixed an airplane today.”
Noah climbed onto a chair.
“You fix airplanes every day.”
“A big one.”
“How big?”
“Very.”
“Passenger plane?”
“Private jet.”
“Rich-person private?”
“Very rich-person private.”
Noah leaned forward.
“How rich?”
“Billionaire rich.”
His eyes widened.
“You fixed a billionaire’s airplane?”
“Yes.”
“Did she give you a million dollars?”
Lucas laughed again.
“No.”
“Then what’s the point of being a billionaire?”
“Excellent question.”
They made dinner together.
Noah grated cheese.
Most of it landed beside the bowl.
Lucas told him about the failed start without mentioning the humiliation.
He explained hearing a strange sound.
Checking a connection.
Finding the problem.
Noah listened.
Then asked:
“Did the other mechanics not know?”
“They knew plenty.”
“But you knew the one thing.”
“Today.”
Noah thought about that.
Then:
“Did someone finally notice you’re good?”
Lucas froze.
The wooden spoon stopped in the pot.
Noah looked up.
It was not accusation.
Just a child asking something he had clearly been wondering for a long time.
Lucas turned off the burner.
“Yeah.”
He said.
“Someone noticed.”
Noah smiled.
“Good.”
Then he returned to the cheese.
Lucas had to look away for a moment.
At 8:43 that night, after Noah went to bed, Lucas finally returned one of the missed calls.
“Mr. Meyer?”
“Yes.”
“This is Adrian Wells.”
“Ms. Cross’s chief of staff.”
Lucas looked toward Noah’s bedroom door.
“Okay.”
“Ms. Cross would like to meet tomorrow morning.”
“About what?”
“Employment.”
Lucas said nothing.
Adrian continued.
“She would also like your permission for independent counsel to review records associated with the Skyward incident.”
“My permission?”
“We will not use your name publicly or contact Skyward claiming to represent you unless you authorize it.”
Lucas sat down slowly.
“That was her instruction?”
“Yes.”
Something eased inside him.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But the beginning of it.
“What time?”
“Nine.”
“I work at seven.”
“Ms. Cross says your shift will be covered.”
Lucas almost smiled.
“Of course she does.”
The meeting took place in a conference room above the private terminal.
Evelyn sat at one end of the table.
No jet.
No runway urgency.
No crowd.