Caelan nodded along with Dusty’s response. He didn’t know what Dusty needed a motor for, and he wasn’t going to necessarily ask. The fact that it was attached to a pontoon boat made Caelan think the Cajun man had some water rig out in the bayou. Caelan wasn’t the sort to live in the marsh, not necessarily, but he could respect Dusty for keeping to himself in these times. But still, Caelan could only imagine how lonely his days could get for a man that looked as intimidating as Dusty.<br/><br/>He stayed out of the way as Dusty bounced around between the truck and bike. He seemed to know what he was doing, which was more than Caelan could say about himself. Caelan gave one last swipe of his shirt over his face before he pulled the thing over his head. He approached the truck, standing beside the bed with his arms resting on the side, watching the man swap the rubber.<br/><br/>“Thank you for doing all of this.” Caelan gestured to the small set up in the back of Dusty’s truck. “I wouldn’t have even known where to start.” Well, actually, that was a lie. He would start by trying to track down an entire dirt bike to replace his. None of this swapping of tires with simple manpower and a few useful tools. Dusty had saved him. The bike had grown on him, so he was glad to keep it.<br/><br/>Their chore list soon transferred to Dusty. Caelan found himself sitting in the passenger seat with a tow strap on his lap. Maybe the exchange wasn’t fair. It had been relatively easy work to locate a bike tire, but now? Extracting a pontoon boat from beneath a sedan?<br/><br/>Caelan watched in the rearview mirror as Dusty backed the truck up to another pile of metal. He could see a portion of the pontoon boat and even more of the sedan. The fact that Dusty had located his motor amongst all of this rubble and debris was beyond him. Dusty was a different breed than the folks he grew up with in Connecticut, even the few people he knew in New Orleans.<br/><br/>“Oh, sure.” He nodded, watching as Dusty exited the truck and walked along its side. Caelan slid across the bench seat and stared down. He wrapped pale, lithe fingers around the steering wheel, exhaling almost shakily at the sensation. Every part of him was screaming to floor the gas pedal to the ground and get the hell out of here, out of Louisiana. This truck might get him to Connecticut. It would be a far more comfortable ride than his dirt bike, that was for sure. If it weren’t for the fact that the truck was tethered to an anchor the size of a literal pontoon boat, Caelan might have tried it.<br/><br/>Caelan gently pressed his boot against the gas pedal. He twisted, peering back at Dusty through the back glass. He waited for some signal to stop or press down a little harder. The last thing he wanted to do was snap the tow strap or injure the man.