Chapter 37: Passing the Torch (The Steel)

The rattle in Arthur’s chest wasn't just the vibration of the shop floor; it was the sound of a clock running out of gears. He gripped the edge of the workbench, his knuckles white against the scarred oak, waiting for the gray bloom in his vision to recede. Outside, the humid air of Cypress Bend hung heavy, smelling of rain and overripe magnolias, but inside the shed, the air was sharp with the ozone tang of a cooling welder and the dry scent of iron filings.

Leo, David’s boy, was watching him. The kid had David’s lanky frame but none of his stillness yet. He was all knees and elbows, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his own welding mask pushed up like a plastic crown.

"Again," Arthur said. His voice was a dry rasp, the sound of sandpaper on rusted pipe.

"Sir, I’ve done six of 'em," Leo said, gesturing to the scrap pile where six rejected beads of steel lay like frozen silver caterpillars. "You said the third one was almost there."

"Almost is the distance between a bridge that stands and a bridge that screams before it gives way," Arthur said. He forced his fingers to uncurl from the workbench. They didn't want to cooperate. The tremor started in his pinky and worked its way up to his wrist—a fine, persistent twitch that felt like a wire hum. He tucked his hand into his coverall pocket, hiding the betrayal. "This strut is part of the load-bearing assembly for the main pump. If your weld has a pocket of slag the size of a grain of salt, the vibration will find it. It’ll chew at it. And one night, when the town is sleeping and the river is rising, that metal will snap."

Arthur stepped toward the jig. Every movement felt like dragging a weighted sled through deep mud. His heart didn't beat so much as it shuddered, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of old ribs. He looked down at the steel. The strut was heavy, cold-rolled industrial grade. It was honest material. It didn't lie, and it didn't make excuses.

"Pick up the stinger," Arthur commanded.

Leo sighed, a puff of teenage frustration, but he obeyed. He adjusted his gloves. He was seventeen, old enough to be scared of the world but young enough to think he was immortal. Arthur needed him to lose the second part of that.

"What do you see?" Arthur asked, pointing to the joint where two plates of steel met at a ninety-degree angle.

"A fillet weld," Leo muttered.

"No. Look closer. Forget the terms. What do you see in the metal?"

Leo leaned in, his brow furrowed. "I see a gap? About an eighth of an inch?"

"I see a thirsty mouth," Arthur said. "That gap is a void. It’s a weakness in the infrastructure of this town. You aren't just joining two pieces of metal, Leo. You’re weaving them together. You’re turning two things into one. If you don't respect the heat, the heat will eat the temper out of the steel. If you go too fast, you’re just painting. You want to sew."

Arthur reached out. He didn't want to, but he had to show him. He took the electrode holder from Leo’s hand. The weight of it immediately sent a shock of fatigue up his arm. His heart skipped, a sickening hollow thud in his throat that made him dizzy. *Not yet,* he whispered to himself. *Just one more.*

"Watch my lead hand," Arthur said. He lowered his hood. The world turned a deep, cool green. He kicked the pedal, and the hum of the transformer rose to a growl. 

He struck the arc. 

The blinding white-blue light exploded into existence. Through the darkened glass, Arthur didn't see the shop anymore. He didn't see the shadows of the hanging tools or the dusty rafters. He saw the puddle. It was a molten pool of sun, swirling and liquid. 

His hand shook. The arc sputtered, a jagged, angry sound like a hornet caught in a jar. 

*Steady,* he told his nerves. *Steady, you old fool.*

He focused everything he had—every remaining scrap of will—into the tip of that electrode. He slowed his breathing, timing the movement of his hand to the rhythm of his failing pulse. Each beat of his heart was a stitch. He moved the rod in a tight, recursive loop, watching the molten metal flow into the corner of the joint. 

He could feel the heat radiating through his gloves, through his skin, bone-deep. It was the only place he felt alive anymore—right at the edge of the melt. The puddle stayed round, perfectly controlled. He watched the slag float to the top, a glassy skim over the glowing heart of the weld. 

He reached the end of the seam and pulled back, snapping the arc.

The silence that followed was deafening. Arthur stood there, his chest heaving, his vision swimming in the dark of the helmet. He waited until he was sure he wouldn't collapse before he flipped the mask up.

The weld was beautiful. It was a rhythmic, overlapping series of crescents, uniform as a braid of silk, still glowing a dull, angry red in the center.

"Whoa," Leo whispered. He leaned over, peering at the work. "It looks like... I don't know. Like it grew there."

"It’s a bead," Arthur said, his voice straining. He sat down heavily on a metal stool, his legs suddenly turning to water. "No undercut. No porosity. It’s stronger than the steel around it now."

He wiped a bead of cold sweat from his upper lip with his sleeve. "The machines we build, Leo... they’re just temporary shelters. The tractors will rust into the dirt. The pumps will seize. The grit in the water will grind the impellers down to nothing. People think 'infrastructure' is a word for things made of concrete and rebar. They’re wrong."

Leo looked up from the weld, his expression shifting from awe to confusion.

"The infrastructure is us," Arthur said, pointing a trembling finger at the boy’s chest. "It’s the mind that knows how the pressure flows. It’s the hand that knows how to fix the break when the lights go out. You’re the infrastructure, Leo. If you don't learn this, if you don't take the torch, then Cypress Bend is just a collection of rotting wood waiting for the next flood to sweep it away."

A sharp pain, like a hot needle, lanced through Arthur’s left shoulder. He gripped his thigh, digging his thumb into the muscle to distract himself. 

"My dad says you’re the best there ever was," Leo said softly. He looked at the welder, then back at Arthur. "He says you can hear a machine's heart beating before you even open the casing."

Arthur gave a grim, pained smile. "Lately, I’m the only one who can’t hear a heart beating properly. Now, get that wire brush. Clean the slag off my weld and look at it under the light. Look for the flaws I might have missed. Even I have 'em."

Leo grabbed the brush and started scrubbing with a frantic energy. The screech of the wire against the steel echoed in the small space. Arthur watched him, his mind drifting. He thought about the miles of pipe buried under the town, the hidden veins of the water system he’d spent forty years maintaining. He thought about the thousands of welds he’d laid—some in the freezing mud of a burst main at three in the morning, some in the sweltering heat of a mid-August engine overhaul. 

They were all still there. Holding. 

"It’s perfect, Mr. Arthur," Leo said, stepping back. The weld shone like polished silver now. 

"Nothing is perfect," Arthur snapped, though there was no heat in it. "Put your hood down. You’re going again. And this time, don't think about the strut. Think about the water that's going to be pushing against it. Think about the weight of the town."

Leo nodded, his jaw setting in a way that reminded Arthur of David when he was a boy. He lowered the mask. 

The arc flared again. 

Arthur sat on the stool, feeling the coldness creeping up from his feet. He watched the flicker of the blue light against the corrugated tin walls. Each flash was a strobe, freezing the boy in motion—arm steady, body braced, the future of the Bend held in a pair of stained leather gloves. 

The kid was finding the rhythm. The sound of the arc changed from a crackle to a steady, bacon-sizzle hiss—the sound of a good weld. 

Arthur closed his eyes for a second, just a second, letting the heat of the shop wrap around him. He could feel the vibration of the world, the deep, low thrum of the earth and the river, and the small, defiant scratch of a teenager trying to master the steel.

"You're drifting to the left," Arthur horizontal whispered, his eyes still closed. "Watch the puddle. Feed the wire. Steady... steady."

He heard the arc break. He heard the clatter of the stinger hitting the table.

"I did it," Leo said, his voice cracking with excitement. "Mr. Arthur! Look at the stack! I did it!"

Arthur didn't open his eyes. The Gray was everywhere now, soft and quiet, smelling of ozone and old memories. He felt a strange lightness, as if the heavy burden of the town’s bones was finally being lifted from his shoulders, passed hand to hand, spirit to spirit.

"Clean it," Arthur managed to breathe, a final command. 

"Arthur?" Leo’s voice changed then. The triumph vanished, replaced by a sharp, jagged edge of fear. "Arthur, you okay?"

Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder, a strong, young hand that knew the weight of a tool. He wanted to tell the boy it was fine. He wanted to tell him that the steel was set, and the joint would hold.

He couldn't feel the stool anymore. He couldn't feel the floor. He only felt the last, fading warmth of the arc, a tiny star burning in the dark of his shop, lighting the way for the one who stayed behind.

The wire brush fell to the concrete with a sharp, final clang that signaled the end of the shift.