Garrett looked at him. You sure about that? Caleb thought about it honestly. Pretty sure, he said. Maybe 70%.
70% is not a number I love. I don't love it either, Caleb said. But I've got work to do and Mia's got a science project due Friday and I'm not going to spend the week I have left before the school break in a lawyer's office. Not if I don't have to. Garrett accepted this though his expression said he wasn't entirely satisfied.
He turned back to the carburetor. There's a Cessna 172 coming in Thursday that needs a full systems check. Owner thinks it might be the alternator, but I'd put money on the voltage regulator. You interested? Yeah, Caleb said, "I'm interested.
He finished the coffee and picked up a work order from the top of the stack on Garrett's bench and got started. The workshop smelled like oil and metal and old concrete, and it felt in its specific way like putting on a jacket that fit correctly. He had not realized until that morning how much of his energy at Asterion had been spent managing the invisible weight of working inside an organization where his value was understood by almost no one with any authority. Here there was just the work and a man who knew the difference between someone who could actually do it and someone who couldn't. It was a smaller life in some ways.
It felt for the first time in a while like his own. Sloan's Tuesday was punishing in the way Tuesdays had been punishing for most of her professional life, but with an additional layer that she couldn't quite shake. She moved through back-to-back meetings with the precision of someone who had trained themselves to function at full capacity, regardless of what was happening internally. But every time there was a pause between agenda items in the elevator, standing at the window of the conference room while someone else was talking, she found her mind sliding back to the file to page four to 17 people. She also, though she was doing her best to manage this, kept thinking about the driveway, about the girl on the plastic crate with the uneven braids.
She couldn't identify exactly why that image kept returning with such persistence. There was something in it that her mind wouldn't let go of. Some detail she was still working out. The braids themselves, she thought, the fact that they were imperfect, that they were clearly the work of someone who hadn't done it before and had kept doing it anyway, morning after morning because they had to. because there was nobody else. She called her assistant at 11 and asked her to find out quietly whether there was a record of how long Caleb Rowan had been a single parent.
She framed it as a review related to HR processes for employees with dependence and left it there. The information came back by 2:00. His wife had died 3 years ago. Mia was 8. The math was straightforward and brutal.
Caleb Rowan had been working the night shifts, the emergency calls, the off-clock inspections that didn't exist on paper. had been doing all of that while raising a child alone since she was 5 years old. Sloan sat with that information for longer than was probably efficient. She thought about all the nights in the file, the 4:15 a.m. discoveries, the 11 p.m. starts. She thought about them differently now. Before she had read them as evidence of dedication, and they were that, but they were also something else.
They were the shape of a man trying to solve an impossible equation. The aircraft needed him at 11. Mia needed him at 7:00. The hours between those two obligations were not rest. They were transit.
She had mocked a man in front of 40 people for sleeping on the floor during those hours. She stood up from her desk and walked to the window and looked down at the tarmac and the hanger and the small figures of the ground crew below. And she thought about the last time she had actually walked through that hanger at a time when she wasn't passing through it to look at a specific aircraft. She thought about the last time she had learned the name of someone in a blue uniform whose job description didn't bring them into her office. She couldn't recall one.
She pressed the intercom button. "Get me a list of every night shift and weekend shift that's been logged in the maintenance division over the past 6 months," she said. "Names, hours, dates, the whole thing." Her assistant paused. "Is there a specific incident you're no?" Sloan said, "I just want to see it." The list arrived in a binder the next morning and she carried it home and read it the way she'd read the employment file carefully starting from the beginning, not skimming. It took most of the evening.
What she found was not dramatic. That was almost the point. It wasn't a smoking gun or a single shocking discovery. It was just the ordinary texture of how the work actually got done. The names that appeared again and again in the late night and weekend slots. the same dozen people cycling through the hours that the executive floor never saw.
Caleb's name was dense in the records up until his termination date. But he wasn't alone. There was a woman named Delgato who seemed to have worked a double shift every other week for the past 4 months. A man named Park who was logged for a Saturday morning emergency inspection that had taken 11 hours and was documented in two lines of a maintenance report that probably nobody had read. She turned page after page, and what accumulated was not a picture of dysfunction or neglect.