Page 9 of Backward Motion

“Yeah, Dad was trying to expand the business and figured we could do with another pair of hands.”

“What happened to him?”

“Skipped town in search of better opportunities. At least that’s what I was told. We went from three sets of hands to just one.” Connor raised his wrists from the steering wheel and waved with his fingers. He made it sound like a joke, yet Andy leaving was when things had begun to fall apart—not just for the business but for Connor and his father.

“His loss,” Sam said.

Connor cocked his head. “Not exactly. He ended up getting licensed and started a business several towns over. Heard he’s doing quite well for himself.”

“So, how does it work? You apprentice for a couple of years and then get to work on your own?”

“Four years, and then you have to pass your license exam.”

“That’s practically a college degree!” Sam said.

“There’s a formal-study part to the apprenticeship, but you can do that while you work. Honestly, getting a handle on the basics was a lot harder than I expected when I first started out. We’ve taken on a few apprentices over the years, but none of them lasted long.”

“Why’d you stick with it?”

“You’ve met my dad.”

Sam laughed. “Okay, that makes sense.”

“Sheer stubbornness. He didn’t think I could do it.” Connor paused. It wasn’t the only reason. He remembered his father’s first fall and the look on the man’s face when they got the diagnosis. “Unlike you, Mr. Honor Roll, I was flunking out of school and setting shit on fire.”

Sam clicked his fingers. “That’s what Brian was talking about.”

“What?”

“At trivia the other night.” He turned to Connor, his eyes wide. “You were the one who burned down Krazinski’s woodshed?”

Connor grimaced. “That’s when my old man gave me an ultimatum—come work for him or get sent to military school. So I became an electrician.”

“It’s a decent origin story.”

“Is it, now? Well, what’s yours?”

Sam exhaled through his lips. “Just a classic case of diminishing returns. I thought a business degree would make life easy. Then I got stuck in marketing, trying to pay it off.”

“You’re good at it, though.”

Sam shifted in his seat. “Sure. And there’ll always be jobs, and the money’s decent.” He spoke in a flat, unaffected voice as if money and job security weren’t all they were cracked up to be. Connor decided not to press further.

They drove past the Farewell Oakdale sign and continued on the main road out of town toward Fletcher Graham’s place. Mr. Graham was selling the old family farm so he could be closer to his daughter in Fairmont. But the farmhouse was still in its original condition, and Connor was there to replace some of the old knob-and-tube wiring before it went up for sale.

“Your dad,” Sam said into the silence that followed. “He’s retired?”

Connor gave a rueful snort. “If only. Nah, he’s sick.”

“What is it?”

“MS.”

Before the diagnosis, Connor hadn’t even known such a thing existed—that someone’s body could turn against itself, attacking its own nervous system. He wasn’t sure if his father had been having symptoms for years and hiding them or if he was one of the few multiple sclerosis cases that immediately entered the progressive phase, sending him from his feet to a walker to a wheelchair in eight short years.

“That can’t be easy,” Sam said quietly.

Connor shrugged, flicking on his blinker and turning off the road onto a narrow gravel lane. “It is what it is.”