Steam had stopped.
Leo inspected it without touching anything hot.
The teenager hovered nearby.
“You charge to look?”
“Eventually.”
“I don’t have much.”
“We haven’t fixed anything.”
The boy watched him.
Leo glanced toward the backpack.
All his possessions?
Maybe.
Leo recognized the way the boy scanned approaching cars.
He did not ask.
Not yet.
“You eat dinner?”
The teenager stiffened.
“I can pay.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence.
“No.”
Leo nodded toward the shop.
“Break room has sandwiches.”
“Why?”
“Because people put them there.”
“You don’t know me.”
Leo looked at him.
The sentence echoed across fourteen years.
A dead gas station.
A wounded biker.
Patrick’s voice.
If you understand the problem and can help, walking away is a decision too.
“No,” Leo said.
“I don’t.”
He pointed toward Desert Iron.
“Sandwich is still there.”
The boy hesitated.
Then walked toward the shop.
Sully arrived fifteen minutes later, having remembered he left his phone charger.
He noticed the old truck.
“Customer?”
“Maybe.”
“Kid?”
“Maybe.”
“Runaway?”
Leo looked at him.
Sully raised both hands.
“Just asking.”
“Don’t.”
“Got it.”
They stood beside the truck.
Evening cooled the pavement.
The teenager came back carrying half a sandwich, saving the other half in a napkin.
Leo noticed.
Said nothing.