I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 66: Sandpaper and Sacrifice
Jon's Perspective
The morning sun beamed through the windshield as Jon cruised down the street, one hand lazily on the wheel, the other tapping along to the upbeat rhythm pouring from the radio. It was a Thursday—school holiday—and he had a belly full of Gloria's eggs, Ghost had been fed and only playfully bit him once, and now he was on his way to Sam's. Life, Jon decided, was good.
Pulling into Sam's driveway, Jon killed the engine and stepped out of the car, still humming. The front door was unlocked—Diane probably left it open for something—so Jon let himself in.
"Morning, Diane! Morning, Ron!" he called, poking his head into the kitchen where Sam's parents were sipping coffee. Diane waved warmly, and Ron gave him the usual grunt before returning to the newspaper.
With the usual pleasantries exchanged, Jon climbed the stairs to Sam's room. He knocked once, then pushed the door open—and paused.
Clothes covered every visible surface. Jeans, tops, a rogue bra hanging off the lamp. In the center of the chaos lay Sam, facedown, screaming into a pillow like a banshee auditioning for a horror film.
Jon blinked. "Should I even ask?"
Sam didn't lift her face. "I'm going out with my friends."
Jon glanced at the hurricane her wardrobe had clearly lost to. "And this... is preparation for battle?"
Sam groaned and rolled over, her hair a tangle of frustration. "I promised my dad I'd go to that woodworking conference with him today."
Jon blinked. ''Wait, the one he's been hyping up since—what? Months ago?''
She nodded mournfully. "I totally forgot when I made plans with the girls. Now I don't know what to do."
Jon took a step inside, carefully avoiding a scarf that looked like it might be alive. "Okay. Just explain it to him. He's a reasonable guy."
"You don't get it," Sam said, sitting up. "He's so excited. He's been talking about this for months. There's a panel on reclaimed barnwood that he's been obsessing over. Barnwood, Jon."
Jon smirked. "Hey, barnwood has layers. Like onions. Or ogres."
Sam flopped back onto the bed with a groan.
Jon crossed his arms, thinking. Then an idea hit. "Okay. What if I went with your dad instead?"
Sam sat up like someone had poured cold water on her. "What?"
"I mean, if it's just about him not going alone, and you don't want to cancel with your friends... I can go with him. Keep him company. Talk about joints or something. Nod at sandpaper displays."
Sam stared at him. "You'd do that? For me? Because I've been to one of those conferences before. They are the definition of soul-numbing."
Jon shrugged. "It's one day. For your dad. For you."
She didn't say anything for a second. Then she got up, marched across the mess, and wrapped her arms tightly around him.
"You're the best," she mumbled into his chest.
Jon smiled and hugged her back. "Tell your dad to bring the good snacks. I'm not suffering through plywood talks on an empty stomach."
She laughed, and for a second, the storm of her room didn't seem quite so overwhelming.
The woodworking conference was held in a large convention center downtown, its glass façade reflecting the mid-morning sun. Jon stepped out of Ron's pickup, adjusting the conference badge hanging awkwardly around his neck. It read "Jonathan Hale – Guest." Ron's badge, in contrast, looked like a veteran's medal of honor: laminated, color-coded, complete with "Return Attendee" ribbon flapping beneath it.
Ron practically skipped into the building.
Jon followed, trying not to look like a teenager being dragged to a dental seminar.
"Jon, you have no idea," Ron said, practically vibrating. "The reclaimed timber guys are here this year. And there's a panel on antique joinery techniques. Antique, Jon! These are joints older than electricity."
Jon nodded, trying to match the enthusiasm. "I mean… how could we not?"
They entered the main hall, and the scent of sawdust and varnish hit Jon like a nostalgic breeze from an alternate universe he didn't know he'd visited. It was packed—aisles of booths with elaborate woodwork displays, demonstrations with hand tools, carving stations, even a corner where some old guy was passionately lecturing a crowd about Japanese chisels.
Ron, with the zeal of a kid at a theme park, dragged Jon from stall to stall. At first, Jon just nodded and smiled. Then… something changed.
Maybe it was the intricate Celtic knot pattern being carved into a mahogany panel by a guy with forearms like tree trunks. Maybe it was the time Ron showed him a collapsible wooden kayak and Jon whispered, "No way." Or maybe it was the way Ron talked about wood—the excitement in his voice, the pride in his knowledge. It wasn't just a hobby. It was craft. It was history. It was art.
By the time noon rolled around, Jon wasn't just tolerating the conference. He was enjoying himself.
He asked questions about grain direction. He complimented a teenager's hand-carved chessboard. He tested out a lathe, completely botching his first attempt and nearly launching a chunk of pine into the crowd. Ron laughed so hard he had to sit down.
They had lunch at a food truck outside—barbecue sliders and lemonade. Ron wiped sauce from his fingers with a napkin and turned to Jon.
"You know," Ron said, "Sam's never lasted more than two hours here. But you? You're a natural."
Jon smiled, genuinely touched. "What can I say? Wood speaks to me."
Ron laughed again, then slapped Jon on the back. "I'm glad you came, Jon. I really am."
Jon nodded. "Yeah. Me too." He looked back at the massive building, already planning which stall he wanted to revisit. "So… antique joinery techniques, huh?"
Ron grinned. "Let's go see how the old masters kept things together." And together, they headed back inside.