"Don't mind them," Sunny says, following my gaze. "That's Abe and Nadine. They've been married longer than most of us have been alive, and they still can't agree on pie."
"The cobbler," Nadine insists, loud enough for the whole diner to hear.
"She's wrong," Abe stage-whispers to me. "But I love her anyway."
I smile despite everything. Despite the dead car and the empty bank account and the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing. "They're sweet."
"They're ridiculous," Sunny corrects, but she's smiling too. "Eat your pie, honey. You look half-dead."
I eat the pie. It's perfect—tart and sweet and gone in about four bites because I'm starving and it turns out running away makes you hungry. Sunny refills my coffee without asking, and I'm halfway through the second cup when I hear Nadine say, "You know who has space? Holt Ward."
I freeze, mug halfway to my lips.
"Nadine," Abe warns, but there's amusement in his voice.
"I'm just saying," Nadine continues. "That boy lives alone in that loft above his shop. One bedroom, but it's just him up there rattling around. More space than one person needs when there's folks who could use a roof over their head."
"He's not going to take in a stranger, Nadine. You know how he is."
"Too stubborn for his own good, that's how he is. Won't even consider helping folks out. But I bet if someone showed up needing it bad enough, he wouldn't turn them away. He's not heartless, just particular about his space."
My pulse kicks up. Space. Above a shop. Someone who might help if asked directly.
I turn around before I can stop myself. "Sorry—I couldn't help overhearing. Did you say—I mean, someone has space? Like, available space? For rent? Or maybe not for rent but just like, existing? Because my car just died and I walked here and I don't really have a plan beyond 'don't die in the desert' which seems like a low bar but apparently that's where I'm at—"
Nadine and Abe both look at me. There's a knowing smile on Nadine's face—warm, conspiratorial, like she'd been saying all that loud enough for me to hear on purpose. Abe's trying not to grin.
"Well," she says slowly. "I wouldn't say he's offering it, exactly."
"Nadine," Abe warns, but he's already smiling.
"The boy who owns the auto shop has a loft above it," Nadine continues, waving him off. "One bedroom. Lives there by himself. We keep telling him he should help folks when he can, but he keeps to himself. Doesn't let people in easy." She pauses, searching for the word. "Particular."
"Stubborn," Abe corrects.
"Particular," Nadine repeats firmly. "But he's a good man. Quiet. The kind who'd help if someone needed it bad enough—he just won't advertise it."
"Okay but where—where's the shop? Like, how do I find it? Do I just wander around until I see a shop? That seems inefficient. Is there a sign? Please tell me there's a sign because I've done enough wandering today and I'm pretty sure my shoes are melting—"
"Ward and Weller Auto," Sunny says from behind the counter, and when I look over, she's watching me with that same assessing look. "Three blocks west. You'll see it—big red building, can't miss it. But fair warning, Holt Ward's not the chatty type. Don't take it personal if he says no."
"Right. Not chatty. Got it. I can work with not chatty. I'm extremely chatty so maybe we'll balance each other out? Like yin and yang but with words? Is that a thing? I'm making that a thing." I'm already grabbing my stuff, coffee-fueled and manic. "Okay. Three blocks west. I can do three blocks. I did half a mile already, what's three blocks? That's nothing. Thank you—all of you—you're all very kind and I'm sorry for being a disaster in your diner—"
"You're not a disaster, honey," Sunny says, but she's trying not to laugh. "Good luck."
I leave a tip that's probably too generous given my financial situation and grab my stuff. Sunny waves me off when I try to pay for the pie. "On the house," she says. "Good luck, honey. You're gonna need it."
I walk out into the heat feeling weightless. Or maybe lightheaded. Either way, I've got a lead—a lifeline—and something's better than sitting in my dead car waiting for the universe to decide I've suffered enough.
Three blocks west. I can do three blocks.
The auto shop's exactly where Sunny said it'd be—impossible to miss, with its corrugated metal walls and faded red lettering that spells out WARD & WELLER AUTO in letters that must've been bright once but now look sunbaked into submission. There's a truck parked out front, hood up, and I can hear the clang of metal on metal from inside, someone working.
I stop outside the open bay door, suddenly unsure. What am I supposed to say? "Hi, I'm a stranger, can I live in yourspace in exchange for money I don't have?" That's not desperate. That's unhinged.
But I'm here, and my car's dead, and I've got nowhere else to go, so I square my shoulders and step inside.
The garage smells like oil and sweat and sun-baked rubber, and it's almost as hot in here as outside, even with the big industrial fans shoving air around. There's a car up on a lift, tools scattered across workbenches, and a guy in a grease-stained tank top bent over an engine.
