The next morning
My Dad’s office has become a strange little world over the past couple of weeks.
Every available surface has disappeared beneath ledgers, invoices, shipping manifests and corporate filings, the whiteboard is covered with Locke's neat handwriting and Jade’s increasingly enthusiastic arrows.
Outside, I can hear the familiar soundtrack of the clubhouse garage next to us: an engine roaring into life, Tucker arguing with Brick about torque settings, Diesel insisting he hasn't lost another wrench, despite the chorus of voices informing him that he absolutely has.
It makes me smile without thinking, because somehow the noise has become comforting. It means home. It means family. It means I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Locke, on the other hand, has reached that dange
