“Earl said if a man wears the wings, you don’t let the fire go out.”
Cade stared at him.
The boy’s face was hollow with exhaustion. His gray jacket had mismatched stitching across both elbows. His fingers were cut, blistered, and dirty from climbing the canyon, but his eyes remained steady.
“Who was Earl?” “The mechanic at Sagebrush. He was a Marine. He taught me field medicine, engines, water filters, and windbreaks.” “Where is he now?” “Dead.”
Cade swallowed.
“And your parents?” “Dead too. Car accident four years ago. Same road.”
Eli said it without visible emotion, as though reading facts from a report.
Cade looked toward the improvised splint around his leg.
“You did that?” “Yes.” “The bandage?” “Yes.” “The fuel line?” “It was leaking. I sealed it with clay so the bike wouldn’t catch fire.”
Cade’s eyes returned to the boy.
“What’s your full name?” “Eli Dunbar.” “Give me the phone, Eli Dunbar.”
The boy handed it back.
Cade dialed one number.
The call connected after two rings.
“Spike,” Cade said.
A gravelly voice answered. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Box Elder Canyon. Route 376 South, mile point 4.7. I’m injured.”
The voice on the other end changed instantly.
“How bad?” “Broken leg. Head wound. Three days exposed.” “Who did it?” “County Commissioner Douglas Callaway. Same man closing the Sagebrush Youth Home. I have a recorded threat and physical evidence collected by an eleven-year-old boy who kept me alive.”
Silence followed.
Then Spike asked, “How many roads reach you?” “One fire-access track on the east side.” “We’re coming.”
Cade looked at Eli.
“How many?” the boy asked.
Cade’s mouth tightened into the first hint of a smile.