“Call this number,” Wendell said. “Any time. I’d like to see your workshop.”
Mrs. Tate’s expression changed immediately.
“No.”
The word was soft, but final.
Jaylen froze.
Wendell turned to her. “I don’t mean any disrespect.”
“I said no.”
“Mama—”
“Inside, Jay.”
The boy’s jaw tightened, but he obeyed.
Wendell stood in the yard while the screen door creaked shut.
For a moment, Mrs. Tate remained on the porch.
“You’re not the first man to show up impressed by my son,” she said.
Wendell felt the sentence land somewhere heavy.
“I’m not here to use him.”
“That’s what the last one said.”
Before Wendell could ask what she meant, she stepped inside and closed the door.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
Wendell got back into his SUV, but he did not drive away at once.
He sat there with the engine running, staring through the windshield at the little blue house, and for the first time in years, he did not think about profit, investors, or quarterly reports.
He thought about a boy who understood systems.
He thought about a mother who looked afraid of opportunity.
And he thought about the phrase that had been stuck inside his skull since the repair.
