MARCUS OPENED HIS SADDLEBAG
I stood close enough to stop him if necessary.
He reached inside.
Then pulled out—
a tiny red metal toolbox.
I stared.
The corners were scratched.
One sticker peeled away from the lid.
Written across the front in crooked black marker were the words:
NOAH’S STUFF
I recognized the handwriting.
I saw it on homework every week.
My anger didn’t disappear.
But it changed.
“Noah.”
He swallowed.
“You have a toolbox?”
“Yes.”
“At Marcus’s shop?”
A tiny nod.
Marcus placed it on his motorcycle seat.
Opened the lid.
Inside were:
child-sized work gloves,
a little bicycle wrench,
a tape measure,
a tire gauge,
a cheap sewing kit,
a plastic pancake spatula,
and a blue necktie tied into the worst knot I had ever seen.
I stared.
“What is all this?”
Noah whispered:
“Practice.”
“For what?”
He looked at Marcus.
Marcus shook his head.
“Nope.”
“What?”
“You explain this part.”
Noah looked betrayed.
“You said you’d help.”
“I did help.”
Marcus tapped the toolbox.
“That’s how we ended up here.”
