Chapter Text
The wire was cold between his fingertips, but the memory was warm.
“Virgil, hold this please.”
His grandfather handed him a hammer and turned to yank the wire towards the fencepost. Pulling a u-nail out of his tool belt, he held out a hand, obviously asking for the hammer back.
Virgil, barely seven years old, found the hammer heavy, but managed to hand it over.
“Thanks, squirt.”
He jumped as his grandfather hammered the nail into place. It was a temporary fix for a broken piece of fence.
Sheep stared at them in the distance.
“Maintenance is important, Virgil. Fix it now, you don’t have to worry about the mess it will make later if you ignore it.”
“Yes, Grandpa.”
Grandpa Tracy looked down at him and smiled. All the freckles on his face crinkled up and the wind had blown his pale red hair into a funny mess.
As if sensing Virgil’s scrutiny, he rubbed a hand through the thin curls and muttered. “And don’t forget your hat because Grandma will roast you more than the sun.”
Virgil giggled.
And coughed.
Oh god.
Pain radiated out from his stomach, wrapped around his brain and took out the memory and slapped him with reality.
“Grandpa...”
But Grandpa was long gone, taken with his mother. Red curly hair, freckled smile...
His eyelids drooped.
“Virgil, honey?” His grandmother’s voice was laced with electronic static.
“G’ma...” He cleared his throat and groaned. “I’ve got my hat on, I promise.”
“Virgil, dear, your brothers are on their way. You hang in there, you hear me?”
Grandpa smiled at him. He had come out all this way for the ride in the tractor. Grandpa sometimes let him steer a little.
“Virgil?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“Always listen to your grandma, squirt, she knows what she is talking about.” His grandfather smiled. “Except in the kitchen.”
“Yes, Grandpa. I will.”
“Virgil?”
He forced his eyes open. The space he was in was lit up in flickering yellow and orange as something burned somewhere. A weight on his chest, hell on his belly and his legs disappeared into a massive nothing. The fingers of one hand traced wire sticking out of concrete, the far too thin rebar that had led to the building collapse. Cheap and poor design. People were dead.
Somewhere inside Virgil the engineer screamed against the injustice. Rebar, little more than fencing wire...how...?
“If you’re going to do a job, squirt, do it properly the first time. Good work builds a good and lasting product.”
Seven-year-old him nodded attentively.
“Good work will look after your own. Keep them safe.” Grandpa waved a hand at the suspicious sheep. “Us builders have a responsibility to those we build for.”
“Yes, Grandpa.”
“Virgil, honey? Talk to me.”
Grandma?
Something sparked and hissed of to his left. Virgil jumped and had to gasp at the pain that shot through him.
God.
“Grandma? Help...”
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