Bruiser stood in the middle of the job site, arms crossed, watching as Big Bubba barked orders at a couple of apprentices struggling to measure out a clean 45-degree cut. The heat of the summer sun bore down on them, sweat already dripping down the back of Ezra’s neck as he stood beside his former enemy-turned-workmate.

  “This is your idea of a fun summer?” Bruiser muttered, side-eyeing Ezra.

  Ezra smirked, adjusting his hard hat. “What, you thought construction was all about swinging hammers and looking cool?”

  Bruiser scoffed. “I never thought it looked cool.”

  Ezra patted him on the shoulder. “That’s because you haven’t had the pleasure of getting yelled at by Bubba yet. Give it time.”

  Just as he said that, Bubba turned their way, his booming voice carrying over the sounds of saws and metal cnking. “Alright, dies! Time to learn something useful! Gather around unless you wanna be the kind of men who can’t read a damn angle without a calcutor!”

  Ezra and Bruiser exchanged a gnce before stepping forward, joining the rest of the crew.

  Big Bubba stood at the workbench, holding up a speed square, tapping it against the wood. “Some of y’all think this thing is just a triangle. But this little guy here is the difference between something standing strong… or fallin’ apart under its own damn weight.”

  Tweak, standing nearby, nodded sagely. “Like my first marriage.”

  Bubba shot him a look before turning back to the apprentices. “If you can’t measure angles, you’re useless in this trade. Lucky for you, God already gave you a damn protractor—your own two hands.”

  Ezra and Bruiser watched as Bubba held up his left hand, stretching out his thumb and pinky wide. “Right here? This is 90 degrees. Your thumb’s one side, your pinky’s the other. And if you take both hands?” He held them up together, thumbs meeting in the middle. “That’s 180 degrees. Half a circle.”

  Bruiser raised an eyebrow. “That actually makes sense.”

  Ezra tried it himself, stretching out his fingers. “Wait, so how do we get smaller angles?”

  Bubba grinned, pointing to the space between his thumb and pointer finger. “This? Roughly 30 degrees. Spread it a little wider, between your thumb and middle finger? 45 degrees. Keep going, and you got 60.”

  Tweak smirked. “It ain’t perfect, but it’ll keep you from lookin’ like an idiot when you don’t have a square handy.”

  Ezra turned to Bruiser, grinning. “Guess that means you got no excuse now, huh?”

  Bruiser shot him a look before holding up his own hands, testing the angles for himself. For someone who had once struggled with basic history lessons, he picked up on it fast.

  Bubba nodded approvingly. “See? Even the big guy gets it. Ain’t that hard.”

  Bruiser rolled his eyes, but Ezra could see the faintest hint of pride in his expression.

  The lessons didn’t stop there.

  Over the course of the summer, the crew drilled Ezra and Bruiser on everything from proper cutting angles to unconventional problem-solving—what Bubba fondly called “redneck engineering.”

  “If it’s stupid but it works,” Bubba told them, holding up a makeshift wooden brace that had been thrown together with zip ties and sheer determination, “then it ain’t stupid.”

  Tweak nodded sagely. “Some of the best fixes in the world weren’t made in fancy bs, boys. They were made by guys with duct tape and bad ideas.”

  Ezra ughed, but Bruiser was watching carefully, taking mental notes.

  They learned how pressure worked in construction, how weight had to be distributed evenly or everything would colpse in on itself. They learned to use a speed square properly, ensuring every cut they made was clean and precise.

  And, surprisingly?

  Bruiser was good at it.

  One afternoon, as Ezra was tightening bolts on a wooden frame, he overheard the general contractor giving a speech to some of the newer apprentices.

  “Y’all ever have to talk in front of a group?” The man asked, pacing in front of them.

  The young workers exchanged nervous gnces, a few muttering things about hating public speaking.

  The contractor smirked. “Here’s the trick: Breathe. You can’t think when your brain’s running on panic. Slow it down. Steady your heartbeat. Control the pause.”

  Ezra paused in his work, listening closer.

  “Y’all ever notice how Bubba talks real slow?” the contractor continued, smirking toward the big man. “That’s because he knows people listen when you take your time. If you rush, you sound like you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. But if you slow down?” He gestured wide. “People take you seriously.”

  Ezra and Bruiser shared a look.

  Neither of them had ever really thought about it before, but it made sense.

  Bruiser, who had always been loud and aggressive, started testing it—speaking slower when he gave instructions, standing taller, exuding calm instead of force. Ezra watched it transform him, turning his natural presence into something that commanded respect.

  And Ezra? He learned to do the same.

  By the end of the summer, they weren’t just former rivals. They were teammates—two kids who had gone from fists and insults to real trust.

  Ezra had learned practical math, picked up skills that made textbook trigonometry feel like child’s py, and gained an appreciation for the craft of building something real.

  Bruiser had learned patience, how to break problems down without brute force, and for the first time, he had people treating him like he had real potential.

  As they packed up their things on the st day, Bruiser leaned against the truck, arms crossed. “Alright, I’ll admit it… this was actually kinda fun.”

  Ezra smirked. “You? Enjoying math? Who are you?”

  Bruiser rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it.

  As they loaded up for the drive home, Ezra had a thought.

  He had a math presentation coming up soon.

  And maybe—just maybe—he had the perfect topic.

  Ezra stood at the base of the scaffolding, clipboard in hand, the metal frame towering overhead. His heart swelled a little with pride—this was his first time being put in charge of a task, not just another pair of hands in the crew. Big Bubba had pulled him aside that morning, cpped a heavy hand on his shoulder, and grunted, "Alright, Cum-Back Kid, today’s your show. Bruiser’s your apprentice. Don’t screw it up."

  He had nodded, taking the responsibility seriously.

  Bruiser, however, had other ideas.

  "Ezra," he called from the second level of the scaffolding, grinning as he leaned against the railing. "We’ve been workin’ this thing for weeks. We know what we’re doing. Why waste time double-checking everything?"

  Ezra frowned, looking up at him. “Because if we don’t, someone could get hurt.”

  Bruiser scoffed, adjusting his hard hat. “Come on, man. You’re thinking too much. This job’s all about flow. You gotta trust your instincts. Improvisation, baby. That’s how you get things done fast.”

  Ezra sighed, flipping through the checklist Bubba had given him. He had been so close to reminding Bruiser that “redneck engineering” wasn’t always the best answer when—

  CRACK.

  A sickening metal groan filled the air.

  The scaffolding lurched beneath Bruiser’s feet.

  For a split second, everything froze.

  Then, with a deafening ctter, one side colpsed inward, sending metal poles and wooden pnks raining to the ground. Bruiser had just enough time to leap sideways, catching himself on a horizontal beam as the entire section of scaffolding folded like a dying spider.

  Ezra’s stomach plummeted.

  Dust and debris filled the air, and the other workers snapped their heads toward the wreckage, shouting. Bruiser, hanging from the remaining framework, cursed under his breath, his legs dangling.

  “F—Ezra, help!”

  Ezra was already moving. He climbed up the remaining structure like his life depended on it, grabbing Bruiser’s forearm and pulling him up onto the stable ptform.

  The two sat there, panting, staring at the pile of twisted metal and wood below.

  A silence hung between them.

  Then, from across the site, a very familiar, very dangerous voice rang out.

  “BOYS. IN MY TRAILER. NOW.”

  The safety officer had arrived.

  The general contractor’s trailer was cramped and suffocatingly hot, the small fan in the corner doing little to stir the stagnant air. Ezra and Bruiser sat side by side on the wooden bench, staring at the floor like guilty children. Across from them, behind a desk covered in safety manuals and incident reports, stood Mr. Fitch, the site’s OSHA inspector.

  He was a thick-built man, his arms crossed over his chest, his steel-gray mustache twitching as he stared them down.

  “You two think this is a game?” he asked, his voice low, steady, and worse than shouting.

  Neither of them spoke.

  “Do you know what could have happened today?” Fitch continued, stepping around the desk. “Do you have any idea how close you were to putting a man in the hospital? Or a coffin?”

  Ezra swallowed hard, his mind racing for an excuse. "Sir, it wasn’t—"

  "Don’t lie."

  Ezra’s mouth snapped shut.

  Fitch pnted his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "I know everything that happens on this site. I know you two have been working undocumented. I know Bubba and the crew have been giving you a chance to learn. And I know—" his voice dropped to a near whisper, "exactly what kind of bullshit went down out there today."

  Bruiser shifted beside Ezra, but didn’t speak.

  Fitch straightened. "So. Who did it?"

  The words hung in the air, sharp as a bde.

  Ezra hesitated, his brain working overtime. He could spin something—say the scaffolding was faulty, or that a loose bolt caused the colpse. But the weight of Fitch’s unblinking stare pinned him in pce.

  Then, Bruiser exhaled through his nose and spoke first.

  "It was me," he said, voice firm. "I rushed the setup. Didn’t brace it right."

  Ezra turned his head, surprised.

  Fitch nodded slowly. But he didn’t respond.

  Instead, he let the silence sink in.

  Seconds ticked by, dragging like wet cement.

  Then, finally, he spoke.

  "You were wrong," Fitch said, pointing a finger at Bruiser. "You rushed. You cut corners. You nearly got yourself—or someone else—killed."

  Bruiser’s jaw clenched, but he nodded.

  Then Fitch turned to Ezra. "And you—you were wrong too."

  Ezra blinked. "What?"

  "You knew better. You saw him getting cocky. You knew something was off. And you did nothing. That makes you just as responsible as he is."

  Ezra felt the words hit like a punch to the gut.

  "You think this is just about one bad scaffolding job?" Fitch continued. "This is about the real world. There are no second chances with safety. None. If someone had been underneath that colpse, we wouldn’t be having this conversation—we’d be filling out paperwork for a funeral."

  Bruiser shifted beside him, suddenly very interested in the floor.

  "Safety isn’t just following rules when someone’s watching," Fitch said, voice softer now. "It’s making sure your people go home at the end of the day."

  He walked back around the desk, grabbed a thick, battered OSHA manual, and dropped it in front of them.

  "Your homework," he said ftly. "Read the first three chapters. You’re lucky this was a small job and not a big commercial site. If it were, you’d both be gone—fired, fined, maybe worse."

  Ezra nodded, feeling the weight of what had happened settle in.

  Bruiser, for once, said nothing.

  As they stood to leave, Fitch called out one st time.

  "Remember this, boys. It’s not about who gets bmed. It’s about who takes responsibility."

  Ezra and Bruiser didn’t say a word as they stepped out into the bzing heat of the afternoon.

  For the first time all summer, neither of them had anything to say.

  And for the first time, Ezra understood just how serious this job really was.