Cane first.
Then one foot.
Then the other.
He had lost weight.
His left arm still did not swing naturally.
His speech remained slower than before.
But he entered under his own power.
Jory put down the wrench.
Nobody made a show of stopping work.
That was deliberate.
Gerald walked through the garage looking at the lifts.
At parts.
At old photographs.
At the people his daughter had spent almost a year describing to him.
Calvin approached.
Gerald held out his hand.
Calvin took it.
Gerald gathered the sentence before speaking.
“Thank you.”
Calvin waited.
“For keeping my daughter safe.”
Jory looked down.
Calvin shook his head.
“She kept herself safe.”
Gerald watched him.
“We gave her somewhere solid to stand.”
Gerald’s eyes moved toward Jory.
Something passed between father and daughter.
No speeches.
No dramatic embrace.
Gerald simply nodded.
Jory nodded back.
For them, that was enough.
Brack brought Gerald coffee.
Gerald took one sip.
His face twisted.
“This is terrible.”
The entire garage erupted in laughter.
Nate pointed at Brack.
“Finally, an expert opinion.”
Brack looked offended.
“He had a stroke. His judgment is compromised.”
Gerald laughed too.
Slowly.
Carefully.
But genuinely.
Jory had not heard that sound in almost a year.
She turned away for a moment.
Calvin noticed.
He said nothing.
Later that afternoon, after Gerald left, the garage settled into its usual rhythm.
Nate was cleaning tools.
Tommy argued with a parts catalogue.
Brack was somewhere outside.
Jory sat on the edge of the centre bay with coffee between both hands.
Calvin stood nearby.
Not beside her.
Near enough.
“I kept thinking,” Jory said, “that if I documented enough, eventually somebody would have to care.”
Calvin listened.
“I didn’t know who.”
She stared into the cup.
“I didn’t know whether police would. Or lawyers. Or anyone.”
“You kept doing it.”
“It was the only thing I could control.”
She smiled faintly.
“Dates don’t argue with you.”
“No.”
“Receipts don’t tell you you imagined something.”
“No.”
“Licence plates don’t say you’re being emotional.”
Calvin leaned against a workbench.
“The writing mattered.”
Jory looked at him.
“So did walking through the door.”
“What?”
“The first night.”
He nodded toward the side entrance.
“You walked into a room where you knew nobody was expecting you.”
“I needed work.”
“You had work.”
“I needed better work.”
“You still walked in.”
She smiled.
“A lot of people have evidence,” Calvin said. “Not everyone carries it somewhere useful.”
Jory absorbed that.