Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

Chapter 20: Marinate On This

Teeny tiny droplets of sweat on his temples were beginning to threaten his hair which would, in turn, threaten the integrity of his hair gel. And yet, hair gel was oh so far down the knuckle gauge of value at the moment. A scandalous thought, really. So unlike him. But then, what he was doing was so unlike him too. Damn near out of body/ abducted by pod people uncharacteristic.

Shawn grunted, heaving back with all the strained power of his shaky muscles and underweight frame... and yelped as the wrench slipped, sending his backside hard against the concrete. The deepest, darkest bruises had finally faded and here he was seeking out replacements so soon. Truly he was a fickle lover.

Not his best. Nothing worth repeating out loud, which was still a skill he was working to recover along with his humor. Dad had cut him more slack than he'd have ever expected in that regard – no doubt mom's influence stepping in front of the impulse to manhandle conversation. Gus had been better, even. He'd filled in before when an overwhelming situation had taken away words and will and this time was no different save for the length of silence. At least Shawn could manage full sentences now. More or less.

The rounded off ache was pulling tightness through his lower belly again. Shawn cradled an arm around his knotted gut and held his breath. He should have taken his medication before starting this project. Well if he hadn't learned after the past four months, he wasn't likely to change now. Baby increment by baby increment, the deeper clench began to ease off. Breaths were stilted, but he could move again.

Using the bumper of his dad's truck as a lever, Shawn cautiously put his feet beneath himself and pushed with his knees to stand. Mostly stand, though primarily he draped over the open engine compartment of the old Ford. Back where he'd started. It had taken eight minutes of fiddling, the first time around, to one-handed gimmick the head of the wrench around the stuck bolt while bracing himself in place with his right arm. He tapped the wrench against the engine block – then stopped when the piercing ring made him wince. Behind him, the screen door cracked against the frame, but he didn't have the energy to act natural.

“Shawn, what the hell are you doing? Are those my good pruning shears?”

Shawn held up the “wrench”. Okay, so he hadn't really given much attention to the tool he'd scored from his dad's dented red tool chest. He'd bumped around until his fingers had latched on something with moving parts. He wasn't that damn thick that he couldn't differentiate an honest wrench from a pair of oversized scissors. He just... didn't care. Hefting the shears from the engine block, it was only then he noted the crease in the lower jaw of the tool. Oops?

His father snatched the shears, letting out a small noise somewhere between a long-suffering sigh and a short-tempered curse. The formerly good pruning shears made a lovely arc as they were lofted back in the direction of the tool chest – falling short by about a foot and skidding off somewhere into the hazy dark of the garage. “What are you trying to do with those anyhow?”

Shawn nodded towards the engine. “Bolt.”

Leaning in, Henry eyed the little project. “Care to explain why you're trying to remove the injection pump?”

He was being proactive, obviously. Digging for a reply, Shawn finally shrugged (his left shoulder – he'd learned not to make that mistake twice) and licked his lips. “It was dirty.”