Chapter 7

Corbin

The machine hum gets in my bones on days like this, steady enough that it almost passes for peace if I don't look too hard at the edges.

By noon, I'm three hours into a rib piece on a mechanic named Raul, Griff's singing badly in the next station over, and the shop smells like green soap, stencil paper, and coffee that's been sitting on a warmer too long. Ordinary. Useful. The kind of day I