If Trin hoped their morning talk would charm Gerrick into stopping by the garage to see him at work, he was wrong. By mid-morning the only visitors Trin has are fat flies that buzz lazily around the trashcan beside his desk. The noise is enough to drive a person mad, a constant drone that penetrates everything. Despite the heat outside, Trin rolls the bay doors up, letting the sun slant into the garage to paint squares of bright yellow light on the concrete floor. He moves the trashcan just outside one of the doors and goes back to work on the trucks, but even beneath the hood he swears he can still hear the damn sound. He’d kill the flies if he thought it’d do any good but they’re like the undead. One falls and two more spring up in its place.
Just in case the gunner’s watching, Trin wor
