Rhett looked at Cal. The anger was fading from the enforcer's eyes, replaced by a heavy, tired realization.
"Your boy," Rhett said softly. "He saw it?"
"Yeah," Cal said.
"He saved my life, Cal."
Cal nodded. "I'll go fix your line. We've got spare hosing in the back."
"No," Wade interrupted. He looked at Cal. "You go take your boy home. We've got a war coming with Peoria, and we need to prepare. You've done enough today. Both of you."
The heater in Cal’s truck was blasting, thawing the frost off the inside of the windshield. The drive back to their small apartment was mostly silent, the tires humming over the frozen asphalt.
Jace sat in the passenger seat, his knees pulled up, looking out the window at the snow-dusted fields. His small hands were still tucked inside his jacket sleeves.
Cal glanced over at his son. For years, he had worried about Jace. He had worried that the boy’s silence was a permanent scar, that his habit of watching everything from the shadows was a trauma response that would cripple him in the real world.
But today, that hyper-vigilance hadn't just been a child hiding from the world. It had been a shield.
"Hey," Cal said, his voice rough.
Jace turned his head.
"You did good today," Cal said, keeping his eyes on the road. "You were paying attention. You did the right thing."
Jace looked down at his sneakers. For a moment, Cal thought he was going to retreat back into his silent shell. But then, the corners of Jace’s mouth—his mother's mouth—twitched upward in a tiny, almost imperceptible smile.
"It was bright green," Jace said quietly. "It didn't belong."
"No," Cal agreed, a profound sense of pride swelling in his chest. "It sure didn't."
The world outside was freezing and harsh. The club had fractured, and trouble was coming to Carver Falls. But inside the cab of the truck, the air was warm, and for the first time in a long time, the silence between a father and son felt perfectly right.