"Any calls this morning?" My voice sounds almost normal. Almost.
"Nah, quiet so far. Got Mrs. Paller’s alignment scheduled for Thursday, and some guy's supposed to drop off a Dodge this afternoon for an oil change."
He's watching me. I can feel it. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." He doesn't believe me. I wouldn't believe me either. "Well, if you need anything—"
"I know. Thanks, Finn."
I take my coffee to the desk before he can push further. Boot up the computer and stare at the screen until the icons blur together. There's invoices to process. Calls to return. Orders to place. Normal stuff. Easy stuff.
Except my brain feels like static and I can't remember what I'm supposed to do first.
Invoices. Start with invoices.
I pull up the spreadsheet and squint at the numbers. They don't make sense. Everything's jumbled. I backspace, retype, backspace again. My neck's already sweating under the bun. The jeans are sticking to my thighs.
Behind me, Finn's back to humming. The wrench clanks against metal. The floor fan oscillates with that rhythmic squeak that's usually comforting but today makes me want to scream.
Then I hear it.
The sound of an engine cutting through everything else.
I know that sound. Know it like my own heartbeat.
My stomach drops.
I busy myself with absolutely nothing—shuffling papers that don't need shuffling, opening drawers for no reason. His footsteps are heavy on the concrete. Steady. Deliberate. Getting closer.
"Morning."
His voice is flat.
I force myself to look up. "Morning."
That's all we get. One word each. His eyes slide past mine before he turns toward the garage bay where Finn's working. I hear them exchange a few words—something about a timing belt—and then nothing.
He doesn't come back.
I stare at the computer screen, at numbers that refuse to line up, and try to remember how breathing works.
The morning drags. Every phone call feels like it takes an hour. Every invoice is a puzzle I can't solve. I put Mrs. Paller’s file in the wrong drawer three times before I realize what I'm doing. Drop my pen. Forget what I was typing mid-sentence and just stare at half-words on the screen.
Around eleven, Finn sets a water bottle on my desk.
"You're doing that thing where you forget to drink."
"I'm drinking."
"Your coffee's been empty for an hour."
I look down. He's right. "Oh."
"Scout—"
"Thanks for the water."
