Page 88 of The Lineman

She squeezed my hand, and I realized I’d been gripping her fingers without even noticing. I loosened my hold, but she didn’t let go.

“People don’t see you, do they?” she murmured.

I glanced at her, my brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“You linemen,” she said, tilting her head. “People see the power come back on and they think,Oh, good. That’s fixed now.They don’t stop to wonder who fixed it. They don’t know the faces of the men climbing poles in the middle of storms, wading through floodwater, cutting through debris just to get the lights back on.”

I swallowed hard.

From the driver’s seat, I heard Rodriguez struggle with his own emotions, something I never thought I’d see.

Margaret gave me a small, tired smile. “I never noticed before. Not really. But I see you now. I’ll never see a power guy without thinking of you.”

A lump formed in my throat, but I forced myself to clear it. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

Her smile deepened. “No, son. You’re saving lives in ways people don’t even realize.”

I sat there, dumbstruck, my mind fumbling over what to do with the weight of her words. No one had ever seen me like that. Hell, I had never seen myself that way, never thought of my work like that.

The truck slowed as we neared the hospital, and I exhaled, trying to shove down the uncomfortable swell of pride and sadness and whatever else threatened to swallow my heart in that moment.

“Almost there,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.

Margaret squeezed my hand once before letting go. “Thank you, Elliot.”

I nodded, but words wouldn’t come.

As we pulled up to the ER entrance, I helped her out, making sure she was steady on her feet. And as the nurses took her inside, she looked back at me one last time and waved.

Heroes no one sees.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever think of myself as a hero, but as Margaret disappeared through those hospital doors, I realized something—

Maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let someone else believe it for me.

Chapter twenty-six

Mike

I’dneverhaddinnerwith just Mrs. H and me.

She was in full battle mode.

I’d barely stepped through her door before she was shooing me to the table, muttering something about how I was looking “too damn thin” and that I needed real food before I wasted away. I didn’t argue—I never won those fights as a kid—but I also knew that eating her cooking came at a price.

A very embarrassing, soul-crushing price.

She moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, stirring something thick in a cast-iron pot while humming an old tune. The scent of onions, beef drippings, and something vaguely buttery filled the tiny apartment, making my stomach grumble.

She shot me a look over her shoulder. “Aye, that’s right, boy. Youshouldbe hungry. I don’t know what kind of rubbish you’ve been eating, but it sure as hell wasn’t anything proper.”

I sighed, settling into the chair she’d practically shoved me into. “I eat fine.”

She snorted. “No, you eat whatever slop is easiest to shove in your mouth while grading papers. I see you, boy. That’snotfine. That’s pitiful.” She grabbed a wooden spoon and pointed it at me, putting on her thickest Scottish accent, “And dinnae even try to argue with me.”

I held my hands up in surrender and stifled a laugh.

“What are you making?” I asked, desperate to shift the spotlight off my seat.

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