This time there were twelve.
Behind them came four pickup trucks.
Then a plumbing van.
Then a roofing contractor's truck.
Then a flatbed carrying something covered by blue tarp.
Miss Miriam came running from the house wearing slippers.
“What is happening?”
Hatch dismounted.
No envelope.
Instead he carried a clipboard.
“Morning.”
Noah stared at the trucks.
“What is this?”
“You said you didn't want money.”
“I didn't.”
“Good.”
Hatch pointed at the first truck.
“This is Ray. Licensed electrician.”
A man waved.
“Second truck, Murphy Roofing.”
Two workers climbed out.
“Plumbing van belongs to my brother-in-law. He's unpleasant, but he knows pipes.”
The plumber shouted:
“I heard that.”
Hatch continued.
“That flatbed has a rebuilt commercial generator.”
Noah stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Hospital upgraded theirs last year. One of our guys works maintenance. Unit's got maybe six hundred hours.”
“You bought it?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“They donated it.”
Noah looked suspicious.
“Because you asked.”
“Yes.”
“That's still charity.”
Hatch smiled.
“No.”
“It obviously is.”
Hatch handed him the clipboard.
At the top was written:
PINE HOLLOW WORK EXCHANGE — SATURDAY PROJECT LIST
Below were jobs.
Roof repair.
Generator installation.
Drain replacement.
Fence posts.
Van diagnosis.
Electrical inspection.
Noah looked up.
“What exchange?”
Hatch pointed at the bikers.
“We work.”
Then pointed at Noah.
“You work.”
“At what?”
“Whatever you're good at.”
“You're giving us everything.”
“No.”
Hatch became serious.
“We're giving you labor today. You're giving ours when we need somebody who knows engines.”
Noah almost laughed.
“I'm fifteen.”
“Your generator running?”
Noah glanced toward the shed.
“Yes.”
“Did anyone else fix it?”
“No.”
“Then sounds like you know something.”
Miss Miriam approached Hatch.
“This is incredibly generous.”
He shook his head.
“Don't call it that.”
“What should I call it?”
“Neighbors being useful.”
Noah looked toward the children gathering on the porch.
No cameras.
No signs.
No one asking anyone to pose.
A biker with a shaved head was already unloading lumber.
Another knelt beside the old well pressure tank.
A woman wearing a River Saints vest carried boxes of electrical outlets.
Hatch looked at Noah.
“You working or staring?”
Noah almost smiled.
“Working.”
The day became chaos.
Good chaos.
Noah helped install the generator.
Ray the electrician refused to let him simply carry tools.
“You know multimeter?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Noah did.
Ray nodded.
“Okay. Check continuity across this.”
Nobody talked down to him.
Nobody called him inspirational.
They simply worked.
On the roof, Murphy taught two older Pine Hollow boys how to measure flashing.
The plumber let thirteen-year-old Abby cut PVC.
Miss Miriam organized sandwiches.
Children passed screws and brought water.
At noon, Noah crawled beneath Pine Hollow's van with a biker named Curtis “Patch” Malloy.
Patch was thirty-eight, missing the tip of one finger, and apparently capable of swearing for five continuous minutes about a fuel line.
“What do you think?” Patch asked.
Noah examined the rusted frame.
“Fuel pump's weak.”
“Why?”
“Pressure drops under load.”
“You tested?”
“Last week.”
“Why didn't you replace it?”
“Costs money.”
Patch nodded.
No pity.
Just information.
“Got a used one at my shop.”
“You own a shop?”
“Motorcycle repair.”
Noah looked interested.
Patch noticed.
“You ride?”
“Not really.”
“Ever rebuilt a carb?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Whatever people throw away.”
Patch laughed.
“I like you.”
By sunset, Pine Hollow had a working generator.
No roof leak.
Two repaired toilets.
Three new porch supports.
Six replaced electrical outlets.
A functioning van fuel system.
And a rebuilt section of fence.
Noah stood in the yard looking around.
Hatch approached.
“Still mad?”
“No.”
“Still think it's charity?”
Noah hesitated.
“A little.”
Hatch nodded.
“Fair.”
Then he handed Noah a small card.
RIVER SAINTS MOTOR & FABRICATION
GARRETT HATCHER
On the back, Hatch had written:
SHOP NEEDS HELP SATURDAYS.
$12/HOUR.
REAL WORK.
Noah stared.
“You offering me a job?”
“Offering you a trade.”
“I can't leave Pine Hollow whenever I want.”
“Then don't.”
Hatch started walking away.
Noah called:
“Why are you doing this?”
Hatch stopped.
For a moment, something old passed through his face.
Then he said:
“Because someone should've done it for me.”
And walked toward his motorcycle.
The River Saints did not fit Noah's idea of a motorcycle club.
He expected chaos.
Instead their clubhouse had schedules.
Tool cabinets labeled in perfect handwriting.
A refrigerator covered with photographs of grandchildren.
And a printed rule near the entrance:
NO DRUGS. NO WEAPONS DURING COMMUNITY EVENTS. NO IDIOTS.
Patch explained.
“The third one causes arguments.”
Noah began spending alternate Saturdays at River Saints Motor & Fabrication.
The shop was technically Hatch's business, though several club members worked there.
They repaired motorcycles, welded frames, built trailers, fabricated brackets, restored old engines, and occasionally argued for forty minutes about spark plugs.
Noah loved it.
At Pine Hollow, he fixed things because nobody else could.
Here, he could ask questions.
Patch taught him carburetor synchronization.
Ray taught electrical diagnostics.
A woman named Elise Grant showed him TIG welding.
The first time Noah's weld looked terrible, Elise stared at it.
“You make that with your eyes closed?”
“No.”
“That's unfortunate.”
He laughed.
Nobody treated his lack of knowledge like failure.
They simply expected him to learn.
Hatch mostly watched.
One afternoon, Noah asked:
“You actually in charge?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You don't act like it.”
“How should I act?”
“I don't know. Yell more?”
Hatch smiled.
“I yelled enough when I was younger.”
Noah began noticing small things.
A framed photograph near Hatch's office showed a teenage boy standing beside a motorcycle.
Same gray eyes.
Same crooked smile.
The photograph was old.
Noah eventually asked Patch.
“That's Hatch's son.”
“What happened?”
Patch tightened a bolt.
“Ask him.”
Noah didn't.
At Pine Hollow, things improved temporarily.
The new generator worked perfectly.
But a larger problem remained.
The property itself.
Pine Hollow leased the land from the Mercer Family Trust.
The original owner had allowed the children's home to stay for almost nothing.
After his death, distant relatives took over.
A development company began negotiating to buy the property.
Miss Miriam knew.
She had told no children.
Noah discovered the letter accidentally.
NOTICE OF NONRENEWAL.
Lease ending in six months.
Vacate property.
He read it twice.
Then found Miriam.
“We're getting kicked out?”
Her face went pale.
“You shouldn't have seen that.”
“Is it true?”
“We're working on it.”
“Who's we?”
“Me. The board.”
“What happens to everyone?”
She sat.
Pine Hollow wasn't an orphanage in the old-fashioned sense.
Some children were wards of the state.