Mike Garrison wiped the grease from his hands with a red shop rag and stepped back to admire his work. The Camry's engine purred like new. Twenty-three years of turning wrenches had taught him to hear what most people missed: that slight irregularity in the idle, the whisper of a vacuum leak, the rattle that meant trouble three thousand miles down the road.
Mike loved the satisfaction of fixing something right. Knowing that Mrs. Chen would drive away safer than when she arrived, that her teenage daughter wouldn't break down on the highway. Mike remembered the day he handed his business card to Mrs. Chen’s daughter. “Put this in your glovebox. If you need car advice, a second opinion, or help over the phone while you are away at school, don’t hesitate to give us a call.”
He glanced at the clock mounted above the tool chest. 6:47 PM. Emma would have dinner waiting, probably keeping it warm in the oven while Emma finished her homework. He'd promised—again—that he'd be home by 6:30.
"Hey, Boss." Jake's voice echoed from under the truck. "Can you grab me that 13mm, 3/8 socket? The Snap-on one?"
Mike walked over to Jake's toolbox and pulled open the second drawer. Empty spaces where sockets should have been stared back at him like missing teeth. He'd been meaning to talk to Jake about organization, but there never seemed to be time for those conversations. The kid was twenty-four, skilled beyond his years, and could diagnose a check engine light from the data and graphs in a scanner. In three years, he'd become the best tech Mike had ever worked with. Mike had seen plenty come and go in the 12 years since he'd bought Garrison Auto Repair from old man Henderson.
"Here," Mike said, handing down his own set. "But we need to get your box organized, buddy. Can't work efficiently when you're hunting for tools."
"Yeah, I know." Jake's voice carried that same apologetic tone Mike had heard a hundred times before. "I'll get to it this weekend."
Mike smiled. He'd been twenty-four once, too focused on the work to care about the details. That's what made Jake good—he lived and breathed cars. The kid would stay after closing to finish testing a driveability issue, would research a weird problem on his own time, would call Mike at home with ideas about that stubborn BMW that had been giving them fits.
The kind of employee you built a business around.
The front door chimed, one of those bells on a spring that Mike had been meaning to replace with something more professional for about five years. Carlos emerged from the office, still in his grease-stained coveralls even though his shift had ended an hour ago.
"That's the parts delivery I was waiting for," Carlos said. "Finally. I'll get the Focus brake job buttoned up first thing tomorrow."
"You should have been gone already," Mike said. "Rosa's going to have my head."
Carlos grinned. "She knows how it is. Besides, Mr. Wagner needs his car. Man drives for DoorDash. That's his livelihood."
This was why Mike loved his shop. The waiting room furniture had seen better days, the coffee maker was temperamental, and the exterior paint was fading to a shade Mike privately called "industrial beige." But his guys cared.
"All right," Mike said. "Let's call it a night. Jake, button up that F-150 and—"
"Actually, Boss. I need to talk to you."
Something in Jake's tone made Mike's chest tighten. He'd heard that voice before, usually followed by bad news. The last time was when Carlos's father had died, and they'd scrambled to cover his shifts for two weeks. The time before that was when their old emissions tester broke down and took a four-thousand-dollar bite out of the operating account.
"Sure," Mike said, keeping his voice light. "What's up?"
Jake rolled out from under the truck and stood, pulling a clean-ish rag from his pocket to wipe his hands. He was tall, over six feet, with the lean build of someone who spent their day contorting into tight spaces. But right now, he looked small. His eyes were fixed somewhere over Mike's left shoulder.