“She’s fourteen.”
“I’m not hiring her.”
Jimmy opened a drawer.
Took out cheap practice brushes.
Placed three small paint cups beside them.
He looked at Sky.
“You say Hollow taught you.”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
Her eyes sharpened.
Jimmy pointed at the tank.
“One hour.”
“No tracing.”
“No stencil.”
“No projector.”
“Paint something.”
Sky dropped her backpack beside the bench.
“What?”
Jimmy shrugged.
“Your choice.”
She stared at the tank.
Then at the brushes.
Then began rolling up the sleeves of her oversized jacket.
What happened next kept six adults quiet for almost fifty minutes.
Sky did not sketch.
That bothered Jimmy immediately.
“You’re really going straight to paint?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
Jimmy smiled.
“Good answer.”
She dipped a brush.
Started with a thin charcoal line.
Then another.
She turned the tank twice.
Her first shapes seemed disconnected.
A curve.
Two broken angles.
A long sweep beginning near the fuel cap.
Jimmy watched over her shoulder.
Ten minutes later, he understood.
A raven.
Not realistic.
Mechanical.
Its wings were made from overlapping exhaust-pipe shapes. The feathers transitioned into flames toward the rear. Beneath one wing, almost hidden, Sky painted a small jawbone.
Then a serpent.
Then the one black scale.
Jimmy stopped pretending to work.
Terry wandered over.
Jeff followed.
Lucy came last.
Gregory stood farther away.
He did not trust himself close yet.
Sky worked with the concentration of someone trying to disappear inside the task.
Her hands were small but steady.
Too steady for a beginner.
She knew how to load a brush without flooding the edge.
Knew when to wait before adding highlights.
Knew how to create depth with almost no color.
Jimmy asked:
“Who taught you to shade like that?”
“Hollow.”
“Your brother.”
“Yes.”
“He make you practice?”
“On cardboard.”
Jimmy smiled.
“He made me practice on garbage cans.”
Sky looked at him.
“Really?”
“No.”
She almost smiled.
Jimmy pointed.
“Your line’s getting heavy.”
She looked.
Corrected immediately.
Forty-eight minutes after starting, Sky set down the brush.
Nobody spoke.
The raven looked as though it were tearing itself free from the tank.
Not professional.
There were imperfections.
One wing slightly heavier.
The lower flame transition too abrupt.
But the style hit Gregory like memory.
Luther painted motion the same way.
Not by making things blurred.
By making every line seem to lean forward.
Gregory walked closer.
He stared at the black scale.
Then at Sky.
“He taught you this every weekend?”
She nodded.
“Before he died.”
Gregory looked away.
Nine years.
He had mourned Luther nine years.
Gone to the crash site.
Helped arrange the funeral.
Carried the casket.
Placed the Iron Jaws patch beneath Luther’s folded hands.
And all that time, somewhere, there had been a little girl who knew the same brush movements Gregory remembered.
“Where’s your family now?”
Sky’s shoulders tightened.
“Gone.”
“Parents?”
“My mom died when I was six.”