She had news. Denise Harlan had spoken with the caseworker, and the agency was reviewing whether a short-term local placement would be available if Rex could not be approved in time. The hospital had also provided updated information about James's medical needs, and a specialized rehabilitation center was considering him for transfer. None of the details were final, but there was a plan taking shape, one written down where people other than Rex could see it.
"How's the boy taking it?" Rex asked.
"He's trying to be brave by making himself useful," Millie said. "He's more frightened of being unwanted than of Springfield itself."
The words hit Rex harder than he expected. He imagined Brian sitting alone in the old house, studying a notebook while waiting for news about an adult who might never come home. He imagined the boy arriving at the garage with his tools because those were the only things he knew how to offer. Then he thought about his own spare bedroom full of boxes, untouched for years because he had grown accustomed to not needing anyone.
"I'll have the room ready," he said.
Millie looked at him. "For an inspection?"
"For a person. Inspection first, of course. But I'm not going to set up a room as a performance and then forget there might be a boy sleeping in it." Rex stood. "Tell me if there's anything else the agency needs."
At midnight he left the mechanics and went home to start clearing the spare room. He worked for two hours sorting old boxes into stacks, throwing away what should have been discarded years ago, and finding objects he had not known he still owned. There was a small model airplane with a broken wing, a faded road atlas, and an unopened set of colored pencils from the time his former foster child had loved drawing maps.
He set the pencils on the shelf beneath the window. The room looked awkward and incomplete without a person in it, but the floor was visible now, and the bed could be reached without climbing over anything. Rex stood in the doorway feeling strangely exposed. He had spent years protecting his privacy, and now he was considering inviting a thirteen-year-old boy into the part of his life where he had grown used to silence.
By the time he finally slept, the men at Thunderfork had completed their repair checks. Butcher signed his name beside the corrected entry and wrote a note explaining the original error, refusing to erase it as if it had never occurred. The engine was ready for another controlled attempt in the morning. He washed his hands, turned off the lights, and left a final message on Rex's phone: WE HAVE A SOUND PLAN. DON'T WAKE THE KID EARLY. LET HIM EAT BREAKFAST.
Brian woke before his alarm anyway. The little house was cold, and rainwater tapped against a loose section of gutter outside his window. For a moment he forgot about the hospital, the motorcycle, and the approaching social worker visit; then memory returned all at once. He lay still listening to the quiet, wondering whether adults had called during the night to say there was nothing more they could do.
Mrs. Alvarez had left a note on the refrigerator reminding him that breakfast was in the oven, wrapped in foil. On the table lay his school assignment, a pencil, and the notebook opened to the photograph of Sarah. He looked at his mother's face for several minutes. She was almost a stranger and yet not quite; he saw himself in her eyebrows, her wide smile, the way she tilted her head when she was amused.