Chapter 2: Shockwaves
Shane’s silhouette filled the open garage door, backlit by the harsh afternoon sun. He dumped his duffel bag on the concrete floor with a soft thud. “Conference was a bust. Speaker had the charisma of wet plywood. I bailed after the first coffee break.” He ran a hand through his hair, already scanning the room, his engineer’s mind cataloging the scene: the idle saw, the abandoned birdhouse, the three of them clustered together like survivors of a small blast.
His gaze landed on Erin. It lingered. He saw the red-rimmed eyes, the damp trails through the fine sawdust on her cheeks. His easy, tired posture stiffened, just a fraction.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. The question was direct, a clean cut through the thick air.
Ryan felt Erin’s fingers tighten around his. Valerie opened her mouth, then closed it, deferring.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Ryan said, his voice carefully even. “Something’s just… new.”
Shane took a step forward, his shoes crunching on wood shavings. His eyes, a sharp, focused grey, didn’t leave Erin’s face. “Did someone hurt you?” The question was low, a quiet rumble that seemed to vibrate in the silent workshop.
“No, Shane, god, no,” Erin said, her voice raspy. She attempted a smile. It wavered and broke.
“Then what?” He was looking at Ryan now, a silent demand for data, for the schematic that would explain this emotional static.
Ryan let go of Erin’s hand. He reached behind him to the drafting table without looking, his fingers finding the small plastic stick. He held it out, pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
Shane stared at it. He didn’t move for a three-count. The clock on the wall ticked. A truck rumbled past on the street outside.
Then he stepped closer and took it. He held it up to the light, as if examining a dubious piece of hardware. His eyes scanned the digital readout. His face, usually so animated with sarcasm or concentration, went completely, utterly blank. It was the stillness before the system reboot.
“This is…” he started, then stopped. He looked at Erin. “Yours?”
She nodded, a tiny, jerky motion.
He looked back at the test. “Three plus. That means…”
“It means it’s not a maybe,” Valerie supplied, her voice softer than usual. “It’s a definitely.”
Shane’s breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. He lowered his hand, the test now dangling at his side. He looked around the garage, at his partners, at the familiar chaos of his life, as if seeing it from a great distance. The protective fury that had flashed in his eyes a moment ago had evaporated, replaced by a dawning, colossal shock.
“Okay,” he said, finally. It was a flat, procedural word. “Okay. We need to confirm this with a medical professional. There can be false positives. Not often, but it’s a non-zero chance. We should schedule an appointment. Soon.” He was slipping into planning mode, the safest harbor he knew.
“Shane,” Erin said.
He kept talking, his words picking up speed. “We’ll need to evaluate our financial buffers. Look at healthcare options. The spare room would need significant modification; it’s a storage dumping ground right now. Ryan, we’d need to soundproof, at least partially, for—”
“Shane.” Ryan’s voice cut through, gentle but firm. “Breathe, man. Just for a second.”
Shane stopped. His jaw was tight. He looked from Ryan to Valerie to Erin, and the full weight of it seemed to hit him, not as a list of problems to solve, but as a fact. A living, future fact.
“You’re scared,” he stated, looking at Erin. It wasn’t an accusation. It was an observation, and it cracked his own calm.
“Terrified,” she whispered.
He nodded, as if this was a critical, expected variable. Then he crossed the space between them. He didn’t hug her immediately. He stopped in front of her, and with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with his analytical tone, he used the pad of his thumb to wipe a fresh tear from her cheek. His thumb was rough with callous.
“The probability of us being terrible at this is statistically high,” he said, his voice low. “We have no precedent. Our model is… unique.”
“We’re great at unique,” Valerie said, moving to stand beside him, her shoulder brushing his.
“It’s also statistically true,” Shane continued, his eyes locked on Erin’s, “that we are a resilient system. We have redundant support structures. High adaptability.” He swallowed. “And I am… I am…”
He struggled. The words jammed. He wasn’t built for this part.
“You’re what?” Erin prompted, a tiny, familiar spark of mischief daring to flicker in her wet eyes.
“I am involuntarily re-allocating significant processing power to this new… project,” he finished, and the sheer Shane-ness of the statement made a choked laugh burst from her.
“Oh my god,” she giggled, crying again at the same time.
He finally pulled her in then, his arms wrapping around her with a firm, sure pressure. He tucked her head under his chin. Over her shoulder, his eyes met Ryan’s. The fear was there, plain and deep, but so was a fierce, unwavering focus. Ryan gave him a single, slow nod.
“So, the conference sucked, huh?” Ryan said after a moment, leaning back against the workbench, breaking the intensity.
“The PowerPoint slides had grammatical errors,” Shane mumbled into Erin’s hair, not letting go. “It was an affront to logic and aesthetics.”
“Bigger problems now, nerd,” Valerie said, but she was smiling. She picked up the discarded test from where Shane had let it hang and placed it carefully on the bench, like a sacred artifact.
“We should go inside,” Erin said, her voice muffled against Shane’s shirt. “I think I need to sit down on something that isn’t covered in sawdust.”
“And eat,” Valerie declared. “The chili survives. We’re eating it. Pregnant person’s orders.”
Shane finally released Erin, but kept an arm around her shoulders. “Nutritional requirements will need to be reviewed. Caffeine intake. Sleep schedules.”
“One thing at a time,” Ryan said, pushing off the bench. He turned and unplugged the circular saw, coiling its cord with a few practiced flips of his wrist. The gesture was an endpoint, a closing of the workshop’s chapter on the afternoon.
They moved toward the house, a loose knot of four. Shane’s duffel bag was left forgotten on the garage floor. The pregnancy test lay on the bench beside the half-built birdhouse, a tiny, white sentinel in the dusty, golden light.
As they stepped into the cooler, dimmer air of the kitchen, the world hadn’t changed. But their place in it had. The conversation was just beginning, a messy, terrifying, beautiful algorithm they would now have to solve together, one imperfect, heartfelt step at a time.