“I dislike you.”
“I’ve known that twenty years.”
The project still moved faster than Daniel expected.
A storage room was absorbed into the expanded service floor. The waiting area gained real chairs instead of the mismatched collection Daniel had accumulated from auctions and curb finds. A coffee station appeared beside the front window. Daniel objected to the cost until Peter showed him the actual number, which was less than Daniel had imagined.
New diagnostic equipment arrived in sealed crates.
The first time Daniel powered up the modern scan system, he spent nearly an hour reading the manual despite the technician offering to demonstrate it.
“You know I can train you,” the technician said.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to read all three hundred pages.”
“I know.”
Marcus walked past and told the technician, “Let him suffer. This is recreational for him.”
The apprenticeship program required more thought than the construction.
Daniel refused to launch it until he understood exactly what young people would be allowed to do, what insurance covered, how wages should be handled, and where teaching ended and exploitation began. He met with a vocational-school coordinator, a youth employment counselor, and a safety consultant Peter recommended.
The program received a name only after Chloe rejected six alternatives.
“Second Chance Initiative,” she said one evening.
Daniel looked up from the paperwork covering their kitchen table.
“That sounds like somebody committed a crime.”
“No. It sounds like life didn’t go the way somebody expected and they get another shot.”
“Why not First Chance?”
“Because some people don’t get one.”
Daniel stared at her.
Chloe shrugged.
“Mom used to say that.”
He wrote the name down.
The first round of applications came through school counselors and community organizations rather than public advertising.
Daniel did not want a television segment announcing that he was rescuing disadvantaged teenagers. The phrase alone made him uncomfortable. He was not rescuing anyone. He was offering training, structure, and paid work to students willing to learn.
The first applicant who stayed in his mind was Tyler Whitmore.
Tyler arrived ten minutes early wearing a white button-down shirt that was clearly borrowed. The sleeves were slightly short and the collar too large. He was sixteen, tall and thin, with careful eyes and a habit of sitting at the edge of his chair as if prepared to leave the moment someone decided he did not belong.
His mother, Renee, had recently lost an administrative job at a packaging plant.
Tyler’s father had been gone for years.
He had a younger sister named Maya and had begun looking for evening work at grocery stores, restaurants, and warehouses because he understood more about the household finances than his mother wanted him to.
Daniel read the application.
“No automotive classes?”
Tyler shook his head.
“My school doesn’t offer them.”
“Worked on anything mechanical?”
“Lawn mower once.”
“How’d that go?”
“I made it worse.”
Daniel looked up.
Tyler’s face reddened.
“At least you’re honest.”
“I watched videos after and figured out what I did wrong.”
“Did you fix it?”
“Eventually.”
“What do you want from this program?”
Tyler had clearly prepared an answer.
His lips parted.
Then he abandoned it.