Rex stood near the foot of the bed, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. James looked smaller than he remembered, his beard trimmed short, his face marked by exhaustion rather than the amused stubbornness Rex associated with him. Brian sat beside the bed and took out the photograph of Sarah. He held it where James could see and told him about the hidden pouch in the Harley.
"I found Mom," Brian said softly. "The picture where she's holding me. The one you kept safe. I brought it because I thought you might want to see it again."
James's gaze settled on the photograph. Nothing dramatic happened, and nobody tried to interpret every tiny movement as a message. Yet he looked at it for several seconds, and a tear gathered at the corner of his eye before the nurse gently wiped it away. Brian touched his grandfather's hand and tried not to cry himself.
"We found your letter, too," Brian continued. "The one to Rex. I hope that's okay. I didn't mean to go through your stuff, but it was in the bike, and I thought maybe you wanted us to find it."
Rex stepped closer. "Jaime," he said.
"I read it. I'm sorry I didn't answer you when you wrote before. I'm sorry I made you feel you had to choose between us and your family. You were right to look after Sarah. And you were right to look after Brian."
The old man did not turn his head. Rex had not expected him to, yet the words felt necessary in a way no apology Rex had ever delivered across a workbench had felt. He explained that the garage was helping with the Harley, that Brian was teaching the men things they had forgotten, and that the arrangements for the boy's care were being handled properly. He did not promise James a recovery or pretend that the problems ahead were small.
"We'll do what we can," Rex said finally. "And this time I'm not going to disappear because something is hard."
Brian remained by the bed for another half hour. He talked about his science class, the absurd amount of paperwork Millie carried, and the way Butcher could complain for five minutes while doing exactly the thing he claimed he would never do. He told his grandfather he was learning that some repairs needed more than one person. James's hand lay still beneath his, but Brian stayed until the nurse reminded them that rest was part of treatment.
Outside the hospital, Rex bought two small bottles of water and sat with Brian on a bench beneath a tree. Cars moved through the parking lot in a slow stream, and a delivery truck idled near the service entrance. Brian stared at the sidewalk, tapping his shoe against a crack in the concrete. Rex waited because he could see the boy thinking.
"Was Grandpa really angry with you?" Brian asked.
"He had reason to be." Rex opened his bottle. "When his daughter needed him, he stepped away from people who weren't making good decisions. I thought he'd chosen to leave me behind. I was too proud to admit that looking after her was the better choice."
"He still missed you."