Behind me, the son asked, “Can you fix it?”
I looked up at him. That same searching look was still there.
“Yeah,” I said. Then I raised my voice. “Clear the area, please.”
People moved. The kid stepped back too, though not far. He wanted to see.
I checked the fit-up, cleaned the surface, adjusted my angles, and dropped into that kind of focus where the rest of the world fades out.
I took my time. Repairs like this needed controlled heat and clean motion. No showing off. No wasted movement.
When I finished, I let the seam cool exactly as it needed to.
Then I stepped back and lifted my hood.
“Bring it up slow,” I said.
The room fell quiet as a technician moved to the controls.
The system started low, humming back to life. Then pressure built as flow returned to the line.
Everyone watched the seam.
Nothing.
No drip. No tremor. No weakness.
The guy in the hairnet exhaled so hard it nearly turned into a laugh. “That did it.”
Curtis grinned. “Nice to see you’re still ugly and useful.”
I wiped my hands on a rag. “I prefer indispensable.”
He laughed.
