Page 29 of Run Omega Run
Angus closed the door behind him, cleared his throat, and when I looked at him, his expression had shifted from predatory satisfaction to something more approachable, more familiar. "Aye, that's right. We've brought materials to fix that sagging roof before the next rain comes through and soaks everything ye own." He gestured toward the supplies they'd carried, then pointed toward the obvious damage that marked our building like scars. "And we can seal some of the worst cracks in the foundation before they get any bigger."
I followed his gaze, seeing our home through their eyes, the crack that ran from the floor to the ceiling on the east wall, the places where weather had gotten in and caused damage that I'd been patching with hope and prayers instead of proper repairs.
"That's..." I started, then stopped, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what they were offering. "That's expensive work. Professional work. I can't possibly—"
"Ye can possibly," Angus interrupted with a grin that transformed his intimidating features into something warm and approachable. "Because we're not asking for payment. We're asking for the chance to make sure these children have a safe place to sleep at night."
Before I could formulate a response that encompassed both gratitude and the independence I'd fought so hard to maintain, movement from inside the kitchen caught my attention. The children had been watching, their faces pressed against glass as they tried to understand what was happening in their front yard.
But one small figure had ventured outside, creeping along the wall of the house with the careful movements of someone who wanted to get closer but was afraid of drawing attention. Tomas, barely six years old, had somehow slipped past Susie's protective oversight and was now edging toward us with eyes that were wide with fascination.
Tomas rarely spoke above a whisper, even to me. The earthquake had taken his parents and left him so traumatized that the official social workers had labeled him "selectively mute" before giving up on finding him proper placement. He communicated mostly through gestures and drawings, and it usually took weeks before he would show any interest in new people.
But now he was moving toward Angus with the kind of focused attention he usually reserved for his collection of small toys.
Angus noticed the boy's approach and went still, his massive frame somehow projecting gentleness despite his intimidating size. "Hello there, lad," he said softly, his Scottish accent gentling to something that wouldn't frighten a child.
Tomas stopped about three feet away, his eyes fixed on the tool belt that hung around Angus's waist. The leather was worn smooth from years of use, and it held an array of hammers, screwdrivers, measuring tools, and other equipment.
"Ye like tools, do ye?" Angus asked, following the boy's gaze.
Tomas nodded once, the movement so slight it would have been easy to miss if Angus hadn't been watching for it.
Angus reached into his belt and withdrew a small hammer, its handle worn smooth and its head perfectly balanced. "This one's special," he said, holding it out for Tomas to see but not forcing contact. “Old Bonnie here has been with me for fifteen years. My dad was a carpenter and gave it to me.”
I narrowed my eyes, taking in the beauty of this moment, but also disturbed he’d named his hammer Bonnie.
The boy took another step closer, his eyes fixed on the tool with wonder.
"Would ye like to hold it?" Angus asked.
Tomas looked up at him with eyes that were huge in his thin face, then nodded again with more conviction than I'd seen from him in months.
Angus placed the hammer into Tomas's small hands, adjusting the boy's grip with patient movements until his fingers were positioned properly around the handle. "There ye go. Feel how it balances? That's what makes it work properly. The load's distributed just right, so it does what ye need without fighting against ye."
I watched this interaction with something tightening in my chest. In all the months Tomas had been with us, I'd never seen him show such immediate trust in a stranger. The way he looked up at Angus, the careful attention he paid to instructions about grip and balance, the tiny smile that ghosted across his face when he managed to hold the hammer correctly... it was like watching a flower open after a long winter.
"He rarely warms up to people that quickly," I said softly, not wanting to break the spell that seemed to have settled over both of them.
Angus glanced at me while keeping most of his attention focused on Tomas, who was now examining the hammer with the concentration of someone discovering treasure. "Sometimes children know things adults have forgotten how to see," he said. "They can sense when someone means them no harm."
The simple statement hit me harder than it should have, carrying implications about trust and intuition and the kind of safety that children needed in order to heal from trauma. Tomas had been living with us for eight months, and while he'd learnedto trust me and the other children, he'd never shown any interest in anyone that’d visited our home.
But here he was, standing beside Angus like they'd known each other for years, asking wordless questions about how different tools worked and listening to quiet explanations about craftsmanship and care.
The gentle moment between Angus and Tomas was interrupted by a firm knock at our front door. Tomas jumped and backed away, hiding behind Angus.
Bennett moved toward the door. “That'll be the others,” he said over his shoulder, his tone suggesting that "others" was an expected part of whatever plan they'd developed. "I asked them to give us a few minutes to explain the situation before they arrived."
Others? I followed him toward the door, my mind racing as I tried to process what complications might be about to enter our morning. Behind me, Dante was organizing the building supplies they'd brought, while Angus had turned and continued his conversation with Tomas.
Bennett opened the door to reveal six men standing on our cracked front steps, each carrying supplies that suggested they'd come prepared for serious work. They were clearly friends or associates of the pack, as there was an easy familiarity in the way they interacted, a shared understanding that spoke of people who'd worked together before.
"Heather," Bennett said, stepping aside to let the newcomers enter, "these are volunteers. They heard about the work that needed doing and offered to help."
I stared at them, trying to comprehend the scope of what was happening. These weren't just men who'd decided to spend their morning helping strangers. No, this was an organized effort, a coordinated response that involved people I'd never metvolunteering their time and expertise to repair damage I'd been struggling with for months.
"I don't understand," I said, my voice smaller than I'd intended. "How did they know? Why would they—"
