Evening brought Claire to the factory gate, her freckled face lit by gaslight. She hugged Emil so tight he felt his ribs creak. "You scared me," she whispered. "Three days unconscious? Promise no more heroics."
He kissed her forehead, her warmth grounding him. "No promises. But I'm here."
Dinner was at dad's Paris flat, a modest place cluttered with old blueprints and books. Louis Dufort, gray mustache and sharper eyes, greeted them with a grunt. "Thought you'd finally keeled over, boy. Factory's a mess, eh?"
"Working on it," Emil said, settling at the table. Stew, bread, cheap wine—war rations hit even the well-off. Henriette joined, and Jacques, uninvited but welcome, sprawled in a chair.
"War's a disaster," Louis growled. "Government's hoarding supplies, generals bickering. Corruption's rotting us from within."
Emil nodded, his modern mind racing. He knew the Great War's toll: millions dead, France nearly broken. His 2025 knowledge—tanks, drones, even basic explosives—could shift things. Start small, he decided. Grenades. The ones used now were crude, shrapnel spraying wild, killing friends too. A tweak—better fuse timing, grooved casing for even shards—could save lives without rewriting history.
"I've got an idea," he said, sketching on a napkin. "Improved grenade. Delayed fuse, controlled blast. We can make it here."
Jacques snorted, wine sloshing. "Grenades? Why not exploding baguettes? Toss 'em at the Germans, they'll surrender for breakfast."
Claire swatted him. "Be serious, Jacques. Emil's brilliant."
Louis leaned in, studying the sketch. "Could work. But materials cost. Two thousand francs for alloys, fuses. You got that?"
Emil didn't. Debt was fifty thousand, payroll ten thousand. "I'll find a way," he said.
Back at the factory, he worked past midnight, scavenging scrap metal and old fuses. Hands blistered, he built a mockup. First test failed—fuse burned too fast, singeing his sleeve. "Damn it," he muttered, tossing the wreck.
Henriette found him at dawn, still tinkering. "Go sleep, idiot. Family needs you alive."
He grinned, exhausted. "Help me sketch?"
She did, sharing stories of mom—her laugh, her stubbornness. Bond grew, quiet but strong. Emil thought of Claire's hug, dad's gruff pride. For them, he'd make this work.
No profit yet. Debt unchanged. But the grenade idea burned bright, a spark in the dark.