Noah looked down at the engine, his fingers resting on the cold metal of the radiator cap. The wind rattled the tin roof above us, a cold draft sweeping across our ankles.
“If we do this, there is no going back to being her sons,” Noah said.
I stood up from the bucket, leaving the words between us in the cold air of the garage.
Noah closed the hood of the car with a heavy metallic thud.
The syrup on Clara’s plate had begun to cool and skin over by the time she set her fork down. She looked across the laminate table of the diner, her eyes moving from Noah to me.
“You both look like you slept in your clothes,” Clara said, her voice dropping into that familiar, clipped cadence.
Noah did not look up from his hash browns. “Long night in the garage.”
