“So I’ve heard.”
Harlow had changed its attitude toward Isaac in small, irritating ways.
People who had never asked about his past suddenly asked questions.
The diner owner refused to charge him for breakfast once.
Isaac left cash anyway.
A local reporter appeared.
He declined an interview.
Raymond Ellis arrived with the Ford.
“Truck runs better.”
“Good.”
“They say you saved a satellite.”
“They say too much.”
Raymond leaned against the counter.
“Did you?”
Isaac looked at him.
“A lot of people did.”
Raymond nodded.
“You sound like a general avoiding credit.”
“I fixed a control problem.”
“In space.”
“Still a machine.”
Raymond smiled.
“My students would’ve liked that.”
Across the road, Dale Hutchins stopped making jokes.
For almost two weeks.
Then one afternoon he walked over.
Alone.
Isaac was rebuilding a transfer case.
Dale stood by the open bay.
“Got a minute?”
Isaac looked up.
“That depends.”
Dale shifted.
“My guys say NASA had equipment here.”
“Yes.”
“You really worked aerospace?”
“Yes.”
Dale looked embarrassed.
“I always figured the stories about Houston were exaggerated.”
“What stories?”
“That you used to be an engineer.”
“They weren’t.”
Dale nodded.
Silence.
Then:
“I was an ass.”
Isaac returned to the transfer case.
“Yes.”
Dale waited.
“That’s it?”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Apology accepted.”
Dale blinked.
“I didn’t exactly apologize.”
“You were close enough.”
Isaac tightened a bolt.
Dale stood there another moment.
Then laughed.
A genuine one.
“Still a junk mechanic.”
Isaac looked up.
“Still charging people four thousand dollars for brake jobs?”
“Inflation.”
Dale left.
The fence between their lots remained.
Something else had changed.
Eleanor called the evening Isaac’s certification became official.
“There’s a position.”
He leaned against the garage door.
“No.”
“You haven’t heard it.”
“I know how sentences that start like that end.”
“Listen anyway.”
He did.
Direct staff role.
Propulsion systems analysis.
Houston.
Lead analyst for next-generation drive architecture connected to a lunar surface-access program.
Not Nexora.
Not contractor status.
Real authority.
Real team.
Real budget.
A chance to work at a level he thought had disappeared from his life.
When Eleanor finished, Isaac said nothing.
“You’re doing the thing,” she said.
“What thing?”
“The silence.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You use silence aggressively.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
She smiled on the other end.
“It is a real offer.”
“I know.”
“Not symbolic.”
“I know.”
“Not repayment.”