He also remembered the last thing he told Richard before disappearing.
“I’m not coming back.”
Richard answered, “Then don’t.”
No guilt.
No pressure.
No argument.
“Take care of your daughter.”
Mason did.
For nine years.
He moved twice.
Worked wherever schedules allowed childcare.
Turned down jobs requiring travel.
Avoided race teams.
Avoided engineering firms.
Avoided anyone connected to Vortex.
He repaired delivery vans.
Municipal equipment.
Farm machinery.
Industrial pumps.
Once, for almost eighteen months, he serviced refrigeration units at grocery warehouses because the night shift paid enough to cover preschool.
He never stopped thinking like an engineer.
He simply stopped calling himself one.
Now Luna sat at the kitchen table with toast on one plate and a stuffed bear beside her orange juice.
The bear was brown and oddly shaped, more circular than animal, because Emily had sewn it from leftover fabric before Luna was born.
Mason had once told Luna it looked like a gear.
Luna named it Cog.
“Are you coming home early today?” she asked.
Mason closed her lunchbox.
“I’ll try.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I know.”
“And you came late.”
“I know.”
She considered him.
“You should say maybe.”
“I did say I’ll try.”
“That sounds more yes than maybe.”
Mason smiled.
“Fair criticism.”
“Say maybe.”
“Maybe.”
Luna nodded, satisfied.
“Better.”
He crouched to tie her shoes.
Star-print socks.
Every Monday.
Because, according to Luna, Mondays required luck.
Mason pulled the laces tight.
Not too tight.
Not loose.
His fingers knew pressure instinctively.
Load.
Friction.
Material tension.
He caught himself calculating and stopped.
Luna noticed.
“You did the brain face.”
“What brain face?”
“The one where your eyes stop looking.”
“That’s concerning.”
“It means you’re thinking about car stuff.”
“Shoelaces.”
“Same face.”
He finished the knot.
“Mrs. Alvarez is picking you up after school.”
“I know.”
“I may be late.”
“You said maybe.”
“Right.”
She hugged him.
Mason held her longer than necessary.
At the front door she turned.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Did your race car get better?”
Mason went still.
He had mentioned only that work had a broken car.
He had not told her whose car.
“Not yet.”
Luna nodded solemnly.
“You should fix it.”
Mason almost laughed.
“That’s not my job.”
She shrugged.
“If you know how, maybe it is.”
Then she went across the hallway to Mrs. Alvarez’s apartment carrying Cog beneath one arm.
Mason stood in his doorway.
Children made dangerous arguments because they did not yet understand hierarchy.
Unfortunately, sometimes they were right.
That night Mason stayed until nearly one in the morning.
Not because anyone asked.
A fabrication press had developed a hydraulic leak, and the replacement hose arrived late.
By the time he finished, most of the building was dark.
He washed his hands.
Changed the leaking fitting.
Completed the maintenance log.
Then should have gone home.