Jaylen was in the yard, kneeling beside a lawnmower with its cover removed.
He looked up, surprised.
“You came back.”
“I did.”
“Mama’s asleep.”
“I won’t bother her.”
Jaylen wiped his hands on a rag.
“You still want to see the workshop?”
“Yes.”
The boy looked toward the house, then toward the shed behind it.
“It’s not much.”
The shed leaned like it was tired.
Inside, it smelled of oil, sawdust, hot metal, and rainwater. Sunlight slipped through gaps in the roof and fell across a world Wendell had not expected.
It was not a child’s pile of junk.
It was a laboratory built from poverty.
Shelves made from old doors held labeled jars of screws, bolts, capacitors, switches, washers, bottle caps, stripped wires, magnets, fan belts, and circuit boards. A cracked tablet sat on a crate, connected to a car battery through a handmade regulator. On the wall were diagrams drawn on cardboard: engines, water pumps, battery arrays, solar charge cycles, irrigation systems, and something that looked like a network map.
