He tosses the rag onto the counter and extends a hand, then seems to remember it's covered in grease and pulls it back with a sheepish grin. "Casey Brennan. Owner, mechanic, and apparently terrible at keeping my kid entertained."
"I'm very entertained," Riley protests.
"You're coloring the same page you colored yesterday."
"It's a different color!"
Casey shakes his head, but he's smiling, and there's something about the way he looks at her, fond and exasperated and absolutely devoted, that makes him utterly captivating.
Annie would have loved this. The small-town mechanic shop, the adorable kid, the whole Norman Rockwell painting of it.
"I'm Morgan," I say, pulling myself back to the present. "Morgan Fletcher. My car just died about two blocks from here, and I… I need help."
His expression shifts immediately, the amusement fading into something professional and focused. "What kind of noise was it making before it died?"
"Like... grinding? And then shrieking? And then nothing at all."
He winces. "And you coasted here?"
"I coasted to the side of the road and then walked here."
"Smart." He grabs a clipboard from behind the counter, flipping to a blank work order form. "Where's it parked?"
I give him the street name, though in a town this size, "two blocks down on Main Street" is probably specific enough, and watch as he jots down notes in handwriting that's surprisingly neat for someone covered in motor oil.
"Have you been having any other problems with it?" he asks. "Trouble starting, weird smells, dashboard lights?"
"The check engine light's been on for... a while."
He looks up, one eyebrow raised.
"Three months?" I admit.
"Morgan."
"I know, I know! But it was still running, and I thought—"
"That it would fix itself?"
"That it would hold out a little longer."
He sighs, setting down the clipboard. "Okay. I'll need to tow it here and take a look, but based on what you're describing, it could be anything from a timing belt to transmission failure."
My stomach drops. "How much does that cost?"
"Depends on what's actually wrong. Could be a couple hundred for a belt, could be a couple thousand for a transmission."
I must look as panicked as I feel, because his expression softens.
"Let me take a look first," he says. "No charge for the diagnostic. We'll figure out what's wrong, and then we can talk about options."
"Options," I repeat weakly.
"Payment plans, used parts, that kind of thing. I'm not going to leave you stranded."
It's such a simple statement, but something about the way he says it, calm and certain, like it's not even a question, makes my throat tight and happy that I seem to have found an honest worker.
"Thank you," I manage.
