Sam
The shop looks different.
I've been here a thousand times—working on homework at my dad's desk, watching the crew tinker with bikes, falling asleep to the sound of wrenches and laughter. But tonight, it feels like a different place entirely.
Bobbie and Marcus moved the workbenches to the sides, clearing space in the center. They brought in folding chairs from somewhere—maybe the community center, maybe someone's garage—and arranged them in a loose circle. Not too formal. Not like a classroom or a therapy session.
Just... a circle.
The pizzas are laid out on a long table near the back—pepperoni, cheese, veggie, Hawaiian. My dad went overboard, ordering way more than we need. There are coolers filled with sodas and water bottles, paper plates stacked high, napkins fanned out.
It lo
