Freedom had a price tag, and apparently mine was minimum wage plus tips.
I walked down Main Street scanning help-wanted signs. Dad had offered to buy me a car—hell, he'd probably hand over the keys to his truck if I asked—but taking his money felt like accepting another chain in the long line of obligations that came with being a Callahan.
I needed my own money. My own job. My own way of existing in this world that didn't start and end with Alpha heir expectations.
The problem was that every shopkeeper in Hollow Pines knew exactly who I was, and most of them treated the idea of employing a Callahan like I'd suggested they adopt a live grenade. Polite smiles, nervous laughter, and creative excuses about how they were “looking for someone with more experience” or “needed to discuss it with corporate first.”
Corporate. In a town where the biggest business was Dad's lumber mill.
By the time I reached the auto repair shop on the edge of town, my jaw ached from clenching it so hard. Ward's Garage looked like every other small-town mechanic shop that had given up trying to impress anyone—weathered metal siding, oil stains on the concrete, and a graveyard of pickup trucks in various stages of resurrection scattered around the lot.
The bay doors were open, and I could hear voices mixed with the rhythmic clang of metal on metal echoing from inside. The air smelled like motor oil and brake fluid, with undertones of something wild that made my skin prickle with awareness.
I was scanning for anyone who looked like they wouldn't immediately kick me out when I caught fragments of conversation from the garage.
“I'm telling you, Mason, that Honda's transmission is more fried than yesterday's chicken,” a voice called out, accompanied by the sound of something heavy being dropped. “Customer's gonna cry when she sees the estimate.”
“You say that about every car that rolls in here, Cal,” came the reply, quieter and more measured. “Maybe try a little optimism for once.”
“Optimism doesn't fix blown gaskets, my friend.”
A third voice cut through their banter, gruff and commanding. “Less talking, more working. That Honda isn't going to fix itself while you two debate the philosophy of automotive repair.”
I stepped into the garage proper and found the source of the voices. Three men in various stages of grease-covered work clothes, each focused on different projects but clearly comfortable with each other's presence.
The first man I'd heard—Cal, apparently—looked to be in his late thirties, stocky build with dark hair buzzed short and a faded Metallica t-shirt that had seen better years. He was elbow-deepin an engine bay, singing off-key to music that played from a radio perched precariously on a workbench.
The second man, Mason, was taller and leaner, salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed despite the oil stains on his coveralls. He worked with quiet precision on what looked like bodywork, sanding down a dented fender with the kind of patience that spoke of years of practice.
The third man sat hunched over an engine block, weathered hands working to rebuild what looked like a carburetor. Silver hair tied back at the nape of his neck, lines carved deep around eyes that were sharp blue-gray, like winter sky. When he looked up at me, I felt the strangest sensation—like he was seeing more than just the nervous teenager standing in his doorway.
“You lost, son?” the older man asked, setting down his tools.
I pulled out my notebook and wrote quickly, then showed him the page.
Looking for work.
Cal straightened up from the engine he'd been wrestling with, wiping his hands on a shop rag. “Work? You old enough to work on cars, kid?”
I'm seventeen. I need a car, and I need to earn money to buy one.
Mason looked up from his sanding, studying me with curious eyes. “Most kids your age are asking their parents for cars, not trying to earn them.”
My dad think I should focus on school. But I also want to learn to be independent.
This earned a snort of laughter from Cal. “Kid's got spine. I like that.”
The older man stood up, really looking at me then, gaze traveling from my face to my hands to the way I held myself. “Name's Gideon Ward. I own this place.” He gestured toward the other two men. “That's Cal Harker, thinks every engine problemcan be solved with enough swearing. And Mason Clarke, who actually knows what he's doing most of the time.”
“Hey now,” Cal protested, grinning. “My swearing has fixed plenty of engines. It's a proven technique.”
“Proven to annoy the customers,” Mason said dryly, but there was affection in his voice.
I wrote in my notebook and showed it to Gideon.
Evan Callahan. I can work hard. I just need a chance.
“Callahan,” Gideon repeated, and I tensed, waiting for the usual reaction. But instead of polite dismissal, he just nodded slowly. “Heard your family's got a good reputation for honest work.”
