The following weeks were harder than the triumphant Friday morning had made them seem. Brian attended school, went to the hospital, and spent supervised afternoons at Thunderfork when his schedule allowed. Some days he was cheerful, talking constantly about engines or stars or whatever book his teacher had given him. Other days he moved through ordinary tasks with an expression so distant that even Butcher stopped teasing him.
His classmates knew something had happened, though most did not understand what. A boy in his science class asked whether he had been taken away from his grandfather because somebody had done something wrong, and Brian left the room without answering. His teacher found him sitting outside beside the bicycle rack and told him he did not owe anyone an explanation. Later she offered a place in a lunchtime drawing club where he could work quietly without feeling watched.
Brian began sketching motorcycles from memory. Some drawings were precise enough to look like engineering diagrams, while others showed the old Harley against an open road beneath a sky full of stars. He sometimes drew his grandfather standing beside it, one hand raised in greeting. He never showed those pictures to anyone until a counselor suggested that making art about the things he remembered could be useful even if he did not know how to speak about them.
At the garage, Butcher developed a routine for him. He could read service records, help organize tools, and learn safe measurement techniques under supervision, but he was not allowed to work with dangerous machinery or take responsibility for customers' vehicles. He was a student, not a replacement mechanic, and his schoolwork came first. When Brian complained that the rules made him feel small, Butcher pointed out that every good mechanic had spent years learning before anyone trusted them with the expensive mistakes.
"Knowing when not to touch something is part of knowing how to fix it," Butcher told him.
"You enjoy saying that," Brian replied.
"I enjoy being right. Learn the difference."
Millie visited often, sometimes carrying casework updates and sometimes just bringing sandwiches from a diner near the law office. She was working long hours with her father's firm and knew how easily a child's story could be reduced to a file marked urgent. When she had no useful update, she said so. Brian began trusting her not because she always had answers but because she did not fill the empty spaces with promises.
The hospital arranged James's transfer to a rehabilitation facility that could provide specialized stroke therapy, after the medical team reviewed his needs and eligibility. Rex helped gather old service records showing James's veteran status, and Javier assisted the family in understanding the available benefits without pretending to control the medical decision. Brian was relieved that the center was still within reach of a planned visit, though the drive was longer. Denise and the adults at Thunderfork organized a schedule so he could see his grandfather regularly without missing school.
On the first visit to the new facility, Brian found James sitting in a supportive chair beside a wide window. A therapist explained that his condition remained serious and that progress, if it came, might be slow. Brian drew up another chair and showed his grandfather a new sketch of the FXRS, now with every missing part restored. He spoke about a math test he had passed, Pepper's increasing suspicion of him, and Captain's habit of opening the cupboard containing cereal.