Page 38 of Haunt Me

Samuel doesn't answer. He just walks over, props the hood open, and disappears beneath it.

For the first time in days, hours pass without him reaching for a bottle. His hands move automatically as he checks belts, traces wires, and listens to the idle. The motions are so familiar they almost don't belong to the man wearing them anymore.

I stand beside him and watch his face. This is the closest I've seen to the Samuel I love.

Not because he smiles. He doesn’t.

Not because he looks happy. He isn’t

But because, for a little while, he isn't trying to outrun himself.

He's simply fixing something that’s broken.

My heart no longer beats, but somehow it still knows how to break.

You always did know how to put things back together. I wish… I swallow around the thought before it can finish. Because I already know the answer.

Sam could fix every engine in every town between here and the ocean. But he still wouldn't know how to fix what happened at the creek.

Somewhere past noon, the old mechanic brings him a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and sets it on the workbench without a word. The same way you’d feed a stray that hasn’t decided whether or not it trusts you yet. Sam eats half of it while checking the timing belt. He’s distracted enough that I don’t think he notices he’s eating at all. It’s the most food I’ve watched him get through in weeks.

At the end of the day, the old mechanic presses a folded stack of bills into Samuel's hand.

"You passing through?"

Samuel looks down at the money before stuffing it into his pocket.

"Yeah."

"Where you headed?"

A long silence stretches between them.

Finally, Samuel shrugs. "I'll know when I get there."

The mechanic studies him for a moment, like he sees more than Samuel intended him to.

"You've got a gift, son," he says. "Don't waste it."

Sam nods once and heads back toward his truck.

I follow because I have no choice.

His hands rest loosely on the steering wheel, the keys dangling from the ignition between his fingers. He doesn't start the engine. He simply stares through the windshield, his jaw working like there’s an argument happening somewhere behind it that I’m not allowed to hear.

Hope blooms so suddenly it steals what passes for breath from my lungs.

Maybe.

Maybe today’s different.

Maybe he'll go home.

I close my eyes.

“Please.”

The warmth comes so softly I almost miss it. It settles around me instead of through me, quiet and familiar, and with it comes a peace that has no business existing in the middle of my grief.