I looked up at him. He had that look in his eyes again, like he was trying to figure something out.
“Sure, I can,” I replied. I looked around at the father and the various workers milling around. “Clear this area, please,” I said loudly.
People moved. The kid moved too, but I noticed that he didn’t go far. He wanted to watch.
I checked the fit-up, cleaned the area, got my angles right, and settled into the kind of focus that makes the rest of the world go soft around the edges.
I took my time. This kind of repair needed controlled heat and clean movement. No showing off. No wasted motion.
I noticed that he didn’t go far. He wanted to watch.
When I finished, I let the seam cool exactly the way it needed to.
Then I stepped back and pulled off my hood.
“Bring it up slow,” I said.
The room got quiet as a technician moved to the controls.
The system started low, humming back to life. Then the pressure rose as flow returned to the line.
All eyes went to the seam.
I stepped back and pulled off my hood.
Nothing.
No drip. No shiver. No instability.
The hairnet guy let out a breath so hard it almost turned into a laugh. “That did it.”
Curtis grinned at me. “Nice to see you’re still ugly and useful.”
I wiped my hands on a rag. “I prefer indispensable.”
He laughed.
Then I turned, because I could feel someone staring at me.
No drip. No shiver. No instability.
The father was standing a few feet away with his son beside him.
The kid looked openly impressed in that way teenagers sometimes do. The father looked like a man who had bitten into something hard and could not spit it out.
I met the man’s eyes and said evenly, “This is the kind of work you were talking about in the store earlier, right?”
Silence dropped over the group.
People frowned, confused, but the man knew exactly what I was talking about. I could see it on his face.
The kid did, too. He looked at his dad, then at me, and said something that made my day.
The man knew exactly what I was talking about.
