Chapter 4
Realizing the counter was entirely too public for a conversation of this magnitude, Jax slid off his heavy leather vest and draped it over the back of his stool. He gestured subtly toward a dusty vinyl booth tucked away in the far corner of the diner, near a window overlooking the gravel parking lot. “Come on, Leo. Let’s sit over there where we can breathe.”
Leo nodded obediently, clutching the photograph tightly to his chest like a shield before sliding into the worn red booth. Jax slid in across from him, his large frame making the small table feel even more cramped. Martha, sensing the shift in dynamics, immediately appeared with a warm plate of french fries, a tall glass of chocolate milk, and a fresh cup of coffee. She placed them down quietly, giving Jax a sympathetic, knowing nod before walking away without asking for an order. She didn't press for details; human kindness in this isolated town often came in the form of quiet discretion.
Leo stared at the plate of fries, his stomach letting out a audible rumble that broke the tense silence. He hadn't eaten anything substantial since a gas station sandwich yesterday afternoon. Jax noticed, pushing the plate closer to the boy. “Eat up, kiddo. You look like a stiff breeze could blow you right over.”
Leo picked up a single french fry, dipping it tentatively into ketchup before taking a small bite. He chewed slowly, his hazel eyes never leaving Jax’s face. The silence between them wasn't awkward anymore; it was heavy with unasked questions and the terrifying realization of a shared future neither of them had planned for just one hour ago.
Jax rested his elbows on the laminate table, staring at his coffee cup. He felt a profound sense of inadequacy washing over him. He was a nomad, a man who survived on grease, temporary engine fixes, and whiskey. He had no home, no steady income, and a past filled with violent mistakes that he had spent a decade trying to outrun. Taking care of an eight-year-old boy required a completely different set of skills—patience, stability, unconditional presence—things he had never learned from his own father.
“How did you find me, Leo?” Jax asked quietly, watching the boy sip his chocolate milk. “Route 9 is a long road. I haven't stayed in one town for more than a month in five years.”
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Leo wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, looking down at the table. “Mom kept an old receipt in the back of the photo frame. It was from a repair shop three towns over. I asked the truck driver who dropped me off at the crossroads if he knew where the Broken Spoke diner was. He said it was just down the highway.”
Jax shook his head in sheer disbelief. The resilience of the child was astounding, terrifying even. He realized then that he couldn't just drop Leo off at a local shelter or call social services. The letter, the eyes, the stubborn set of the boy's jaw—it all pointed to one undeniable fact. This was his blood. Walking away now would make him no better than the ghosts that haunted his own childhood.
