-No?
The bank was recharged.
—Every world has a story. You’re here working. That’s what matters. Keep your head down, do your job, and rebuild your life. The rest will fall into place.
It took me a second to understand those words. For the first time since that night, I felt like a monster.
That night I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the cracked wall, trying to process it. I didn’t know him, but even so he gave me a chance. My own family couldn’t do that.
One night, I was looking at my contact list on my phone. I hesitated before calling home, but I needed to hear my mom’s voice. Maybe enough time had passed.
Perhaps he had realized the truth. He answered on the third ring.
—Mom, it’s me —I said in a low voice.
Silence.
—Jackson?
—Yes, I just wanted you to know I’m okay. I found a job. I’m…
“Don’t call here again,” he said.
His voice broke.
—Your father, if only he wanted your name to be mentioned in this house.
And he hung up.
I stared at the phone until the screen went dark. That was the last time I touched it.
The weeks turned into months. I worked double shifts and saved what little I could. Andy started teaching me small things. How to fix a leak in a pipe, patch a grate, check a thermostat.
“Learn to fix things, kid. It’s the only way to survive,” he said.
One night after closing, curiosity got the better of me. I looked up the name Appe. There it was, smiling in photos, with the round table, surrounded by family, holding pink balloons that said:
“It’s a girl.” My mother was beside her, proud, holding a cake shaped like a stroller. My brother was in the corner of the photo, smiling as if nothing had happened.
My throat burned. My stomach twisted so much that I had to close my laptop.
Then I decided that Puca would be Jackson Smith again.
After that night, something inside me went out. No more trying to explain. No more waiting for someone to understand. I was fed up with being the version of me they had buried.
I threw myself into the job on the day. I would arrive before dawn and leave long after closing time. I fixed leaky faucets, cleaned grease traps, and learned to change filters in the old vents.
Бпdy realized. One afternoon, while I was unclogging the sink with half my arm in the drain, she said to me:
—Have you ever thought about learning this seriously?
I looked up, confused.
—Like plumbing?
Serious.
—No, something bigger. Heating, cooling, air systems, HVAC. People are always going to need heat or cold, kid. That skill will feed you for life.
The way he said it stuck with me. I was tired of carving plates. I wanted something that would last, something that I couldn’t take away.
A few weeks later, Бпdy passed me a flyer from the community college that was down the road.
“Evening classes,” he said, sliding it along the bar. “You’d be good at this. You pay what you can. I’ll cover the rest until you’re standing.”
I stared at the paper for a long time. No one had ever offered me help like this before. Not even my real family.
I signed up the next day.
The first few months were brutal. I worked 10-hour shifts at the dealership and then took the bus to school at night, struggling not to fall asleep during classes on compressors and serpentine belts.
Every time I fixed something, when cold air came out of a vent, when a broken unit roared again, I felt a shock as if I were fixing myself piece by piece.
Αпdy continued to push me.
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