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“When,” I agree.

“Classes?”

“Fine. Big project coming up. I’ll get an A.”

“You always say that.”

“I’m always right.”

She laughs again. The hospital sounds shift around her — a PA system, someone’s shoes on linoleum, the ambient noise of a place that runs without stopping. I know those sounds. I’ve known them my whole life.

“I’m proud of you,” she says. Quiet now. “Not just the hockey or the grades. Just — you. The person you’re turning out to be.” A pause. “Your dad texted?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” One word, carrying a whole history compressed into it. “Okay. I’ll call tonight if the shift cooperates. Love you, baby.”

“Love you, Mom.”

I hang up. I sit on the edge of my bed. Twenty-one. It doesn’t feel like anything yet, which I understand is how it usually works. What it feels like is: I’ve been at this for three years on my own, and I’ve got less than two more years to go, and when I’m out the other side, I’m going to take her with me.

That’s the plan. That’s always been the plan.

At nine, a text from my dad:

Dad

Happy birthday, son. Hope it’s a good one.

I look at it for a moment. I type thanks and send it. Then I put the phone face down on the nightstand.

At ten-thirty, a delivery arrives at Raven House. Beau signs for it — I hear him from my room, the sound of something large, and then his voice: “Theo. Hey. Theo, come look at this.”

I come out to the hallway and walk downstairs.

The box at the door is enormous. High-gloss black. The logo of a company that makes professional-grade game development hardware — the kind of setup that goes in studios, the kind that almost costs more than my truck. I’ve been looking at this equipment online and closing the browser for two years. A Wacom Cintiq Pro 27-inch. The kind of display tablet that game artists use when budget isn’t a constraint. A companion processor. Peripherals I’ve been working around on entry-level equipment because the proper tools felt like a joke I wasn’t allowed to make yet.

There’s a card. It says: For your birthday. Hope it helps with the work. —Dad.

Beau looks at the box. He looks at me. He doesn’t say anything, which is the best thing about Beau when it counts.

I pick up my phone. I open the notes app. I find the Tab.

I add the amount. I don’t look at the new total. I close the app.

“It’s good equipment,” Beau says, carefully.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It is.”

I go back to my room. I put the box in the corner. I’ll set it up later. It’s good equipment. It’s also a string, tied around a very nice piece of technology, attached to a man who has been tying strings to things for years and calling it generosity. I know how to receive it. I’ve been practicing since I was eighteen.

I’ll pay it back. Every dollar, to the penny. First real check.

That’s the plan. The plan hasn’t changed.

By seven in the evening, Raven House is full.

Beau organized it. That’s not surprising — Beau organizes things without appearing to, which is one of his most useful qualities as a captain and as a person. Family only, he told Cash and Wyatt. Everyone understands what that means. Show up. Don’t make it a thing. Bring food.