(Sean's POV)
Jack is sprawled on the living room rug with schematics spread around him like fallen leaves.
He's drawing a robot.
Not homework. Not assigned. Just drawing because he wants to, because something in him is lit and running and fully alive in a way that homework never produces.
I've seen this maybe four times in his life.
Every time it's been connected to her.
To his mother. The woman who red-lines his sensor placement and explains false-positive rates on socks and treats his drawings like submissions to a review board.
The tablet is propped on a cushion in front of him. FaceTime. Her face on the screen, workshop light behind her, hair coming loose from its knot.
"My mom says the power supply needs to be lithium-ion," Jack tells the paper, not the screen. He's narrating
