Chapter 11: LAST SHIFT
The Camaro had barely cooled in Martinez Auto's parking lot before I was elbow-deep in an engine bay for the last time.
Two weeks had passed since Max started attending my training sessions. Fourteen days of projection practice, shape work, endurance building. My range was solid at three meters now, occasionally stretching to four if I pushed. The sad hot dog had evolved into something that could almost pass for a blade, though Max still called it "a slightly angry breadstick."
But today wasn't about training. Today was about endings.
The engine in front of me was a straightforward job—worn gaskets, nothing exotic. I could have used heat to help with some of the stubborn bolts, but I kept my power contained. No need for subtle tricks on my last day. Just honest work, the kind Martinez had taught me to take pride in.
I finished the job in two hours, cleaned my tools, wiped down the engine bay. Every motion felt weighted, deliberate. Like the universe was giving me time to notice what I was leaving behind.
"Hargrove." Martinez's voice carried from the office doorway. "Got a minute?"
I closed the hood and walked over, wiping my hands on a rag. The shop had that late-afternoon energy—other mechanics wrapping up their projects, radio playing something by Journey, the smell of oil and hot metal thick in the air.
Martinez led me into his office and shut the door. Small room, crowded with paperwork and parts catalogs, a calendar on the wall featuring women in bikinis draped over cars. He sat behind his desk and gestured for me to take the chair across from him.
"Final pay." He slid an envelope across the desk. "Counted it twice. Should be right."
I took the envelope, felt the weight. More than I'd expected—he'd added something extra. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. You earned it." He leaned back in his chair, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a match. The smoke curled toward the stained ceiling. "You're not a normal kid, Hargrove."
Everything in me went still. "What do you mean?"
Martinez studied me through the smoke. His eyes were steady, patient, the eyes of a man who'd seen plenty and learned not to ask questions he didn't want answered.
"That engine you looked at your first day. The warped one." He took a long drag. "I checked it after you left. Some of the warping had... smoothed out. Not fixed, but better. Couldn't figure how."
I said nothing. My pulse was steady, my face neutral, but my mind was racing through explanations and excuses.
"Noticed your hands, too," Martinez continued. "Always warm. Always. Even first thing in the morning when everything's cold. And the way you look at engines—like you can see something the rest of us can't."
He tapped ash into a tray. The silence stretched.
"Don't worry," he said finally. "I'm not asking what it is. Not my business. Whatever you got going on, that's yours. I just wanted to say—" He paused, seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Use it right. Whatever it is. You got a chance to be something, Hargrove. Something good. Don't waste it on anger."
The words hit harder than I'd expected. Not because of what they said—I'd heard similar advice before, in my old life, from people who didn't know what they were talking about. But Martinez did know. He'd figured out that I was different, and instead of fear or suspicion, he'd responded with counsel.
Don't waste it on anger.
"I'll try," I said. The most honest answer I could give.
Martinez nodded, satisfied. "Good luck in Indiana. Whatever you're running to—or from—I hope you find it."
"I'm not running from anything."
"Sure you're not." A small smile, knowing. "Door's open if you ever come back this way. Could use someone with your... talents."
We shook hands. His grip was firm, calloused, professional. If he noticed the above-normal warmth of my palm, he didn't react. Some things didn't need acknowledgment.
I walked out of the office, through the shop floor, past the other mechanics who nodded goodbye without making a big deal of it. The Camaro waited in the parking lot, blue paint catching the afternoon light.
I sat behind the wheel but didn't start the engine. Just watched Martinez through the shop window, already helping another customer, moving on with his day. First real mentor figure I'd had in either of my lives. The kind of man who paid attention, asked the right questions, and knew when to leave things alone.
Hard to leave. But Hawkins was waiting.
The engine caught on the first try. I pulled out of the lot and pointed the Camaro toward the house, watching the shop shrink in my rearview mirror until it disappeared around a corner.
Three hundred and eighty dollars in my wallet, more than I'd ever saved as the original Billy. Training that was finally producing results. A sister who was starting to feel like family. And a mentor's blessing to carry forward.
Not bad for six weeks of borrowed life.
San Diego scrolled past the windows—palm trees and strip malls and freeways jammed with afternoon traffic. I'd never felt connected to this place in my old life, and Billy's memories of it were mostly pain. But I'd miss it anyway. Miss the warehouse where I'd learned to throw fire. Miss the diner where the waitress had stopped being surprised by my appetite. Miss the ocean, visible sometimes from the right angle, blue and eternal.
Tomorrow they'd pack. Day after, they'd leave.
Hawkins was waiting. And so was everything that came with it.
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0