Page 11 of Resilience

“You okay?” Dad asked as Sam handed him a Bud.

“Yeah. Today was fucked up for a lot of reasons, and that car was definitely the capper, but I went over and hung with Athena for a while, and I talked it out enough. I’m okay now.”

“Good. If you need to do more talking, I’m here.”

Dad swallowed down about half his can, then set it on the bench and returned to the Explorer’s engine. He was finishing a spark-plug replacement. That was a one-man job, so Sam leaned back against the bench and let him work. Tank sat beside him, leaning against his leg, panting happily.

“Can I ask you something, Dad?” Sam asked after a few minutes of companionable quiet.

Dad looked at him under his arm. “Of course. What’s up?”

“It’s about the prospect period.”

“Sure, but be careful, Sam. You know I’m not gonna tell you anything that’s under seal. You don’t get inside info from me. Or Gun, either. Prospecting is what it is.”

“I know. I’m not asking for special treatment.” Not that he’d hate it if he got some. In truth, he felt like he was getting the opposite, like everybody was harder on him because he was a legacy. “But would it be out of line to ask how many guys have been patched when their year was up? Chris and Duncan had to go the full two, and I think Jay did, too, right? I don’t know past them.

Dad looked at him under his arm again, then stopped what he was doing and turned around to face him. He crossed his arms and leaned on the Jelly Belly’s fender.

“I don’t suppose that’s out of line to ask, but off the top of my head, I don’t know for sure. Without looking it up, I’d say it’s more usual to go two years, or close to it, unless the club has a real need for patches.”

Sam sighed but tried not to let his disappointment show. Another full year of this shit. “That’s the determining factor? Whether the club is desperate to fill seats? It doesn’t matter how good the prospect is—so there’s no way to know if I’m fucking up?”

His father studied him for a while. “Okay. First, if a prospect is really fucking up, we wash him out. So yeah, there’s a way to know that. If you’re still a prospect, you’re still under consideration. Anyway, I can say I haven’t seen anything from you that would give me concern about patching you in when the time comes. You’re doing fine, son. Yeah, it’s hard and fucking unpleasant to prospect. I still remember my time wearing a blank kutte in detail, and it was more than thirty years ago. It’s tradition to make life hard for prospects, but there’s reason in it, too. If you stick it out through disgusting work and humiliating treatment, and you still want a patch, that says something about the kind of patch you’ll be. One who sticks. One who can stand waist-deep in blood and shit and still be proud to wear the Bull.”

“I get it. I do. I just ... if I can prove that a little faster ...”

“Maybe this isn’t something I should say, but I want you to think practically, too. Prospects are free labor. When we’re not desperate to put asses in seats, patching somebody in means we lose free labor—and our individual takes shrink when someone new takes a seat, too. That’s why there’s maximum as well as a minimum. Keeps everybody honest.”

“You’re saying it’s gonna be another year before I even come up at the table.”

“I’m saying if you don’t think you can stomach another year, that says something. And you should think about it.” He came over then and leaned on the bench at Sam’s side. “I love you no matter what. I’m proud as fuck of the man you’ve become. This life ... You got to want it like Tank wants you. Anything less and it will tear your soul out and grind it to dust. So if you’ve changed your mind—”

“No, Dad. I want it. I haven’t changed my mind.” He hadn’t. He just wanted to fast-forward through this bullshit. And he never wanted to scrape dead dogs into five-gallon buckets of goo and fur and bone again.

With a nod, Dad continued, “If you do change your mind, there’s no judgment. Not from me, not from Gun, not from anybody who matters. Do what’s right for you.”

Standing here beside his father, hearing words he’d needed, Sam suddenly realized that the day had taken a far greater toll on him than he’d admitted even to himself. He’d felt like an asshole with Lark, and also entirely disrespected. He’d been shouted at and forced to do a job that had battered his heart, and nobody at the station—men who were his family, men he’d looked up to all his life—had given a shit about that.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, Sam let his head fall to the side until it rested on his father’s shoulder. “I love you, Dad.”

His father set his hand on Sam’s head. “I love you, too, Sam.”

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