Chapter 3 - The Broken Shift
At precisely 6:55 PM, down by the industrial sprawl of the East Austin rail yards, Thomas "Tommy" Miller slammed his wrench down onto the metal workbench with a dull, echoing thud. Sweat dripped from his chin, staining the front of his grease-caked overalls. His bones ached with a deep, bone-weary fatigue that sleep could never quite cure.
He had been on his feet for fourteen hours straight. First shift at the auto-repair yard, followed immediately by a double shift covering for a coworker whose wife was having a baby. Fourteen hours of grease, heavy lifting, and the constant, nagging terror in the back of his mind: Is Connor eating? Did he find anything today?
Tommy ripped off his dirty work gloves and scrubbed his face with calloused, oil-stained hands. His sister, Sarah—Connor’s mother—had been the bright light of his life. When she passed away from aggressive cancer eight months ago, she had made him promise one thing: Don’t let them take Connor. Keep him safe.
Tommy had tried. God help him, he had tried. But minimum wage didn't stretch to cover rent hikes, soaring grocery prices, and medical debts all at once. He was drowning, and every day he felt like he was pulling Connor under the surface right along with him.
He grabbed his battered flip phone from his locker and checked the screen. There was a missed text message from an unknown number, accompanied by an address in downtown Austin: Brennan’s Grill. Your nephew is safe, fed, and waiting for you.
Tommy’s heart slammed against his ribs. Panic flared hot and sharp. He didn't know who James Mercer was, but the word safe and the mention of Connor sent him sprinting out of the garage, throwing himself into his dented, sputtering 2008 pickup truck. The engine coughed twice before roaring to life, spitting a cloud of grey exhaust into the evening air.
He didn't care how bad the truck sounded. He had to get to downtown Austin, and he had to get there now.
Back at Brennan’s Grill, James checked his watch. 7:05 PM.
May you like
“He’s on his way,” James told Connor, reading the subtle panic rising in the boy’s chest. “Your uncle is going to be here any minute now. Relax, Connor. You’re doing great.”
Connor gripped his empty lemonade glass, his knuckles turning pale once more, torn between the overwhelming relief of seeing his uncle and the gnawing fear that he had somehow brought trouble to the only man who was trying to keep their family afloat.
