"Welcome to my palace," Finn announces, gesturing broadly. "It's not much, but it's mine and the AC works most of the time."
"It's great," I say, meaning it. There's something about this space that feels lived-in, comfortable, loved. Like Finn's poured himself into making it a home instead of just a place to sleep. The faint smell of sunscreen and old tequila and something spicy—hot sauce, maybe—hangs in the air. "Very you."
"That's either a compliment or an insult and I'm choosing to take it as a compliment."
"It was definitely a compliment."
"Too late. Already offended." But he's smiling, pulling beers from the cooler—actual good beer, not the cheap stuff—and tossing one to Holt, then me. "Sit. Drink. Tell me about your day in town."
I twist off the cap, take a sip. Cold. Perfect. Exactly what I needed after hours in that back room. "Maeve's great. Showed me around. Introduced me to everyone. Made me feel like I've lived here for years instead of days."
"That's Maeve." Finn kicks his feet up on the cooler. "So. Ward and Weller Auto. Final thoughts? Be honest. We can take it."
"Good." I settle into a chair across from him, Holt taking the one between us. "Chaotic in the best way. I've learned more about cars in a this short time than I knew in my entire life. Finn's organizational system is a crime against humanity—"
"Hey—"
"—but in a weirdly functional way. Holt's impossibly competent at everything which is annoying—"
"Not everything," Holt murmurs.
"—and you're both ridiculous but in complementary ways that somehow work." I take another sip. "It's good. I like it here."
"She likes it here," Finn repeats, beaming at Holt. "Hear that? We're likable. This is new information."
"We're tolerable," Holt corrects.
"I said likable and I'm sticking with it." Finn raises his beer. "To Scout. For surviving without running screaming into the desert."
"There's still time," I say.
"That's the spirit."
We drink and the conversation flows. Finn tells a story about a customer who brought in a car making a weird sound that turned out to be a cat stuck in the engine bay—"Alive, by the way, fine, just very angry"—and I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my beer. The sun keeps setting, the temperature keeps dropping, and the string lights flicker on automatically, bathing everything in warm honey-gold that softens all the edges.
"Oh!" Finn sits up suddenly, like he's just remembered something vital. "Scout. Did Holt tell you about Mrs. Patterson?"
"Who's Mrs. Patterson?"
"See, this is exactly why we need Scout around. Fresh audience." He turns to me, eyes bright with mischief. "So Mrs. Patterson brings her car in last month, right? Says it's making a 'worrying sound.'"
"Okay."
"She's very concerned. Very serious. 'Something's wrong, boys, I can hear it.' So we're like, alright, let's diagnose this." He's fully into the story now, using his hands. "We spend forty-five minutes checking everything. Exhaust. Engine. Belts. Suspension. Everything. Can't find anything wrong."
Holt's mouth is curving—he knows where this is going and finds it funny despite himself.
"Finally," Finn continues, "Holt opens the trunk. Just to check, you know? Be thorough. And there's her purse. Just sitting there. And her phone is ringing."
I'm starting to laugh. "No."
"Yes. Her phone. In her purse. In her trunk. Ringing." He's so wide-eyed with delight his face might split. "Holt, what was the ringtone?"
"'Who Let the Dogs Out,'" Holt says, deadpan.
I lose it. Actually lose it, laughing so hard I snort, which makes me immediately mortified but I can't stop. "'Who Let the Dogs Out'? That was the worrying sound?"
"That was the worrying sound." Finn's delighted by my reaction. "She'd been driving around forthe whole day thinking her car was dying and it was just her daughter calling her repeatedly."
