Page 63 of Broken Pieces
He shifts his weight, rag twisting in his hands. “You’ll have to work your ass off. This isn’t a charity gig. You’ll be on your feet all day. No whining. No excuses.”
“I don’t make excuses.” My voice hardens. “I just need a way out. Out of that house. Out of that school. Out of all of it.”
He exhales through his nose, slow. “Fine. You start now. No pay until the books say you’re legal, but I’ll feed you and keep a roof over your head. You’ll shadow me, clean up, learn the basics. When you hit eighteen, the real apprenticeship starts. You screw up before then, you’re gone.”
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees almost give.
“I won’t screw up.”
“Good.” He drops the rag on the bench. “There’s a stack of parts in the corner that need sorting. Start there. Wash your hands first. You look like you crawled out of a ditch.”
“Bus stop.”
He snorts. “Then wash twice.”
I nod and head for the sink tucked against the far wall. The tap groans before water spills out, running brown until it clears. I scrub hard, knuckles raw, watching the dirt peel off in dark streaks that swirl down the drain.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, something inside me eases—only a fraction, but enough to feel it.
I dry my hands on a rag, grab the first part from the pile, and get to work.
Hours pass in a grind of bolts, rust, and grease.
My fingers ache, my shoulders burn, but I keep going. Piece after piece, I sort, wipe down, stack. The rhythm steadies me in a way nothing else does. Metal in, metal out.
At some point, Rainer steps in beside me, checks my progress without a word. He doesn’t hand out praise, but he doesn’t correct me either. That’s enough.
Before he leaves for the night, he tosses me a couple of hot pockets from the mini freezer and tells me to lock the door behind him, saying he’ll see me in the morning.
When he’s gone, it’s me alone with the machines.
The workshop settles into silence once he’s gone. The only sounds left are the scrape of metal in my hands and the rasp of my breath.
I keep working.
My back knots, shoulders tight, fingers burning from the grind, but I don’t stop. Not yet. The ache is better than the thoughts waiting to tear through me if I slow down.
Every piece I wipe down, every bolt I line up, keeps my head steady.
By the time I drop the last piece onto the stack, the clock on the wall creeps past midnight.
My hands are raw, grease carved deep into the cracks of my skin, nails blackened. My stomach growls, dragging my eyes to the two frozen hot pockets Rainer tossed me.
I peel one open and shove it in the microwave tucked near the back wall.
The machine buzzes loudly in the quiet; the smell of pastry and meat fills the workshop. When the bell rings, I wrap both hot pockets in paper towels, and head for the stairs.
The climb upstairs is slow, every step dragging me lower with exhaustion, but I don’t fight it. For once the ache feels earned. My arms throb, my back screams, my legs are heavy beneath me, but when I glance back at the sorted piles, something inside me settles. Order where there was none. Proof I didn’t waste the hours. Proof I can do this.
In the room, I set the hot pockets down on the bed, heat seeping through the paper towels. I strip down to my underwear, tossing my clothes in a heap on the floor, too drained to care where they land.
I duck into the bathroom and scrub my hands under the cold tap until the sting bites at my skin.
When I come back, I drop onto the mattress and tear into the first hot pocket. The pastry flakes, the filling burns my tongue,but I don’t care. I finish it fast. By the time I finish the second one, my eyes are already shutting.
I fall back against the pillow, stomach warm, body wrecked. Sleep takes me before I can even breathe out.
Chapter Ten
