The Fault I Invented

I keep thinking about the yellow grease. A clamp can fail. A line can split. But Dean’s note made it personal, and the part of me that wants a straight enemy is always the part most likely to be wrong.

Burning it was satisfying for exactly ten seconds. Nell watched, and I hated how much I wanted her to understand that I was not afraid. The truth is, the note frightened me because it offered me a clean story: they caused the fault, they sent help, and the next death would belong to them. I am testing that story because I need to know whether anyone in Harrow would come if I were the one on the ground.

I staged the fault badly, or perhaps well enough. Either way, I sat beside that phone and felt every unanswered minute. If the crew comes, I will have to decide what it means. If they do not, I will pretend I expected nothing.

There is something shameful in the test. I wanted to manufacture danger around myself just to see who reacts. I would never admit that aloud. I would say I was checking the ute.

I also keep circling the thought I did not finish yesterday: useful does not mean safe, and being needed does not make me belong anywhere. Micah needed me this morning. That mattered. It does not answer the harder question about why I came looking for danger in the first place.