Page 18 of Enzo
“Um—”
“Install was documented as Enzo-Rep-12—three labor hours logged against your code, and I cross-referenced that with timecard 88A, the one from the Wednesday you stayed late. Filed the labor invoice under JN92-LB, amounting to $180 plus shop fees. That’s how I matched the trail.”
I didn’t say a word. Just watched him. His hands never trembled, voice never broke, in fact he sounded like he was talking by rote, his eyes focused elsewhere.
“That customer might have paid in full—and we have a carbon copy receipt stapled to the folded work order, but the staple tore out when I was sorting them, and the amounts don’t match.” He finally looked at me. “That’s why I linked them. Order, part, labor, payment.”
I caught sight of the open page he’d said listed this all. It was blank. The fuck? I glanced around the room and then at the pile of books he’d made next to his bed—long titles, a couple of them open to pages, dense law textbooks, thick technical car manuals, old manuals on pre-digital filing systems, and a fraying copy of something that looked like a university-level statistics book. Fuck knows where these all came from, but had he read through these? Studied them?
Robbie was clever. More than clever. If he read all of this and understood even five percent of it, then he wasn’t just smart—he was a damn genius. No wonder the numbers poured out of him like breath. This wasn’t memorization. This was structure. Systems. Patterns. He wasn’t parroting information—he was building a map in his head, one invoice, one torn corner at a time.
He saw me glance at the notebook, and then met my gaze, and there was fear in his eyes.
I stepped closer, one foot inside his room, and all hell broke loose.
“Get out!” Robbie shouted, his voice sharp and cracking with panic. The notebook slammed shut in his hands. “Get out, Enzo!”
I froze, stunned. “Robbie—hey, I didn’t mean anything. I just—how do you remember all that?”
But it was too late. His expression twisted, his breathing sharp and shallow as he backed toward the door like a cornered animal.
“Don’t,” he warned, voice shaking. “Don’t ask. Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m not?—”
The door slammed in my face before I could finish.
The sound echoed through the bay like a gunshot.
“What did you do to the kid?” Logan asked as he passed by, his tone somewhere between concern and accusation.
“Nothing.”
He knocked on Robbie’s door, “Hey Robbie, thanks for the heads-up on that invoice.”
“Okay,” Robbie said after a pause.
SEVEN
Robbie
I couldn’t believeI spouted everything to Enzo of all people—with his quiet care, and his staring as if he was trying to solve me like a puzzle.
If the people here at Redcars knew what I could do, they’d use me—just like John had.
That was the fear buried deepest. My eidetic memory wasn’t a gift; it was a target. I didn’t choose it, didn’t train for it. It was just there—relentless and inescapable. Every invoice, every tracking number, every code and label seared into my mind. I remembered it all.
And if anyone realized what I could do, the truth wouldn’t set me free. It would trap me. Again.
They’d see a tool. A resource. Not a person. Not me.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I’d been proud of what I’d figured out. Proud of the trail I’d built. Somewhere in me, under all the panic and reflex and fear, I’d wanted Enzo to look at me with approval. Just once. I wanted him to see me as independent and clever. Toreallysee me.
But all he did was stare. Shocked. Unnerved. And when he saw the empty notebook page—rookie mistake. I’d given myself away.
No one can know what I have in my head. They’ll use me. They always do. The kindness I’d gotten used to—Enzo, the others, their small gestures that made me feel human—would twist into something else in a flash. Greed. Exploitation. Control.
I’m an idiot.
