Oh god, is this arelationship?
He looks down at me and something in his expression softens.
“I don’t suppose you have a generator adapter for one of your cars?” I ask.
We check. Spend twenty minutes digging through his garage, which contains a Range Rover and a Porsche that are both completely useless to us right now. No adapter. Can’t siphon the fuel either since they’re not diesel.
Then I remember the other shed. The big one I spotted when we were moving food outside.
“The other shed,” I tell him. “The big one. What’s in it?”
“Just the equipment shed,” he replies.
“Let’s take a quick peak in there?” I urge.
He leads me across the property, both of us sinking into the deep snow with every step. When he opens the door, I immediately start cataloging. It’s like a treasure hunt except instead of gold we’re hoping for something that burns diesel.
Extension ladder. Riding lawn mower. Chain saw. Random tools.
And then.
“Gregory.” I’m staring at the massive machine in the corner like it’s a unicorn. “There’s a snow plow in here. Like a legit Kubota whatever-it’s-called snow removalbeast. Could we use it to clear the driveway and get out?”
He joins me, examining the machine with the kind of skepticism usually reserved for door-to-door salespeople. “Eight-tenths of a mile through four-foot drifts with steep sections and equipment I’ve never operated?” He shakes his head. “We’d get stuck or injured within fifty feet. And even if we somehow made it to the gate, the main roads are closed. We’d just be stranded in a different location.”
My hope deflates like a sad balloon.
But then he’s moving to the far side of the shed, checking something. “The shed diesel is empty. Thomas drained it for winter storage. Too bad.” His hand runs over the Kubota’s fuel tank and I see his expression change. “But this. Thomas would have topped this off right before he left. If we can repair the generator fuel line, we can siphon this diesel into it.”
I’m already checking the gauge. “Maybe fifteen, twenty gallons?”
His relief is visible. We do the math together. The generator burns about ten gallons per hour at full load. That gives us... an hour and a half? Maybe two? We’ll need to be strategic. Charge devices, attempt internet connection, shut down.
“Can you fix a fuel line?” I ask him.
He stares at me like I just asked him to perform open heart surgery. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Of course he wouldn’t. Why would Gregory “I Have People For That” Falk know how to fix anything?
But here’s the thing about field research. When your equipment breaks down in the middle of nowhere, you learn to fix it or you fail your dissertation. I’ve repaired pumps, generators, all-terrain vehicles that died in locations where AAA was just a cute fantasy.
“I can do it,” I tell him.
We head back to the generator shed, trudging through snow that seems determined to make this as difficult as possible. Gregory’s carrying the toolbox from the equipment shed while I mentally catalog everything we’ll need for the repair. The collapsed overhang looks even worse this time, a twisted mess of metal and ice that makes me grateful we weren’t standing under it when it gave way.
Inside the shed, the smell of diesel is still overwhelming. The ruptured fuel line hangs expectantly from the generator.
“I’ve done this before.” I crouch down, examining the damage with the same focus I’d give to a soil sample. “But I’ll need your help. Your hands are bigger and some of this will require serious muscle.”
The relief on his face is almost comical. “Tell me what to do.”
We spend the next four hours in the cramped, freezing generator shed and I discover two fascinating things about Gregory Falk.
Firstly, he’s a super fast learner.
That one makes sense, I suppose. Considering the whole billionaire persona thing.
But secondly, he’s really good at taking orders.
