Caleb wasn’t expecting company.
The morning was still gray and unsettled, not foggy but not clear either. A half-eaten biscuit sat on the tailgate beside him, its paper wrapper gone soft with grease. His coffee steamed slow in the cooler air, untouched. He wasn’t in a hurry. Never was this early.
He wasn’t hungry. Hadn’t been all week. But holding the biscuit gave his hands something to do besides remember.
The garage bay was cracked open, letting in the wind off the Turnpike and the smell of dew on hot metal. Tools clinked inside when the air shifted. A dog barked somewhere, far enough away not to matter.
Then tires crunched on gravel — not fast, not hesitant. Just there.
Caleb didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. His gut already knew. Like it always tightened a little when something good came walking toward him, unsure if it would stay.
The door creaked open, and Jonah’s boots hit the ground.
He walked up carrying a small tray with two gas station coffees and a brown paper sack. Didn’t speak at first — just stood a few feet away until Caleb glanced his direction.
“You always open this early?” Jonah asked, like it was a question that could mean more than it said.
“Most days,” Caleb said.
Jonah gave a small nod and stepped closer. “Didn’t know if you’d be here. Figured you might be.”
He didn’t wait for an invitation. Just sat on the tailgate, careful not to brush Caleb’s leg as he handed over a cup.
“Black,” he said. “Didn’t want to guess.”
Caleb took it with a small nod, but didn’t drink.
They sat like that for a while — the kind of quiet that doesn’t ask to be filled, but still presses against your ribs a little.
Jonah unwrapped a biscuit slowly, then asked, “You ever get used to the noise when it’s gone?”
Caleb frowned slightly, not looking at him. “What kind of noise?”
“The kind people make when they want something from you. Or think they know what you’re for.”
Caleb didn’t answer.
Jonah let it hang for a beat, then tried again. “Ministry’s strange like that. Always crowded. Still feels lonely.”
He looked down at his cup. “Langston used to say it’s the loneliest calling God ever blesses a man with.”
Caleb took a slow sip, winced at the heat.
Not the first time he’d tasted something bitter just to feel the burn.
“Not the being alone part,” Jonah added. “It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t echo. You say something real and it just… dies in the room.”
Caleb didn’t know much about ministry, but he knew what it meant to speak into silence and get nothing back.
He finally looked over. “Yeah. I know that kind.”
That was all. Just that. But it was the first thing he’d said that sounded like it came from deeper than his mouth.
Jonah didn’t smile. Just nodded, slow.
“You ever have someone like that?” he asked. “Someone you didn’t have to explain everything to?”
Caleb didn’t speak. Not right away. There was a question behind the question—and it felt too close to something he didn’t name.
A streak of sunlight hit the front tire of the truck and stopped there.
“Once,” he said. “Didn’t last.”
Jonah shifted his weight slightly on the tailgate. “I’m sorry.”
Caleb shrugged. “Wasn’t your fault.”
They sat in silence again, but it wasn’t the same kind. This one had edges.
Jonah folded his wrapper and tucked it into the sack. Caleb didn’t move.
He could feel Jonah watching him once or twice — not intrusive, just… open. Present. And for a second, Caleb felt something tighten in his chest. Not anger. Not fear. Just that old instinct that said don’t let this get too close.
But he didn’t leave. He didn’t shut it down.
He just sat there. Let it ache a little. Not because he liked the feeling—but because it meant something was still alive under the quiet.
(Chapter from Not the First in the Caleb and Jonah series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story!)
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