Chapter 8 - The Weight of the Future
Micah stared at the black screen of my phone for a long moment. He swung his legs back and forth, the heels of his sneakers tapping softly against the rungs of the vinyl booth.
"You’re doing work stuff, huh?" he asked, echoing the innocent observation he had made five minutes ago.
"Something like that," I said, sliding the phone back into my coat pocket and zipping it shut.
"Is it important?"
I reached across the small laminate table and took his hand, squeezing his fingers gently. The damp spot on his green sweater was beginning to dry around the edges, stiffening the wool into an awkward shape, but he didn't seem to care anymore.
"I think," I said, looking straight into his clear, bright eyes, "it might be the most important work stuff I’ve ever done."
He considered this for a moment, weighing the gravity of the statement with the same solemnity he usually reserved for choosing the right shade of green paint for a locomotive tender. Then he nodded once, satisfied, and picked up the last crumb of his cinnamon roll.
"Can we go home now?" he asked. "My model train is still in the box. I want to set up the tracks on the living room floor."
"We can do better than that," I said, a genuine smile breaking across my face for the first time in months. "Let’s stop by the hobby shop on the way back. You need some new scenery pieces—maybe a tunnel or a signal station. We have room for a bigger layout now."
"Really?" His eyes widened, the last lingering shadow of the dining room completely vanishing from his face. "A two-loop track?"
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"A two-loop track," I promised.
We gathered our coats, bundled up against the bitter Ohio wind, and walked out of the café together. The snow was still falling, blanketing the parking lot in a thick, untracked layer of white, hiding every footprint and tire track beneath a clean, unbroken sheet.
