"Like mine," she says with a rueful smile.
"Like yours," I agree. "Whoever worked on this last didn't know what they were doing. Or didn't care."
"Can I touch it?"
The question is so unexpected that I just stare at her for a moment.
"The engine," she clarifies, though her cheeks darken slightly. "I want to get a feel for what we're talking about."
"Sure." I step back, giving her room. "Just be careful. Some parts might be hot."
She reaches into the engine bay with cautious fingers, tracing the path of the wiring I just explained. Her brow furrows in concentration, and I watch the expressions play across her face rather than making sure she doesn't damage anything.
"It's like a puzzle," she says finally. "Everything has to fit together just right."
"That's one way to look at it." I step closer again, pointing to the valve cover. "This engine is pretty simple compared to modern ones. No computer controlling everything. Just mechanical parts working together. It's honest."
"Is that why you like classics?"
I pause, considering her question. "Partly. Modern cars are designed to be disposable. Throw them away when they break rather than fix them. Classics were built to last. To be maintained. There's something satisfying about keeping something running decades after it was built."
She nods thoughtfully. "Grandpa Joe used to say something similar about his tools. He had this ancient hand-drill that belonged to his father. Said it would still be working long after the cheap battery-powered ones were in a landfill."
"Smart man," I mutter, turning back to the engine.
For the next hour, I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of disassembly. Sandra watches quietly, occasionally asking questions but mostly just observing. It's strange having an audience, but not as uncomfortable as I expected. She's genuinely interested, not just pretending to be to score points or kill time.
"Diesel, you got a minute?" Marcus calls from across the garage. "Got a question about the Harper order."
"Be right back," I tell Sandra, wiping my hands on a shop rag. "Don't mess with the car."
She gives me an innocent smile that immediately makes me suspicious. "Wouldn't dream of it."
I narrow my eyes at her but head over to where Marcus is struggling with a parts catalog. The problem is simple enough to solve—he was looking at the wrong year model—and I'm back within five minutes.
Sandra is exactly where I left her, but now she's holding a wrench, examining it like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"What happened to not touching anything?" I ask, plucking the wrench from her fingers.
"Technically, you only said not to touch the car." She grins unrepentantly. "The wrench was fair game."
I shake my head, fighting the urge to smile. "You're trouble, aren't you?"
"My specialty." She leans against the workbench. "So, what's next for my poor car?"
"I need to pull the cylinder head to check for damage." I grab a socket wrench. "Then the oil pan to see what's going on with the bottom end."
"Can I help?"
I pause mid-reach. "Help? As in, actually work on the car?"
"Why not? I'm a quick learner." She rolls up her sleeves. "Put me to work, boss."
I should say no. Having an amateur mess with a classic engine is asking for trouble. But the determined set of her jaw tells me she won't take no for an answer easily.
"Fine," I relent. "You can help with the easy stuff. Hand me tools when I ask. Hold things while I loosen bolts. Basic assistant duties."
"I can handle that." She rubs her hands together eagerly. "Where do we start?"
