The tip of the soldering iron glowed dull orange in the gloom of Studio B.
A thin curl of rosin-core smoke rose between Clara’s fingers. It smelled of scorched pine sap and hot copper foil, the same smell that had filled their father’s basement workbench when she was ten years old.
Clara leaned forward in her wheelchair, her elbows braced against the green felt of the console desk. With her left hand, she held a pair of fine stainless-steel tweezers, pinning a ceramic disc capacitor against the circuit board of the field transceiver. With her right hand, she touched the iron to the copper eyelet.
Tssss.
A neat, shiny silver bead flowed around the lead.
Clara lifted the iron and set it into the spiral spring holder. She blew softly across the board. The solder set instantly, turning from liquid mirror to solid frost.
“Clean joint,” Julian said from the stool beside her. He was holding a fresh roll of solder in his scarred right hand.
“No cold bridges. You didn’t lose your touch while you were sleeping.”
