“Is that what the noise is?”
“Part of it. Your upper radiator hose is cracked too. That’s what you’re hearing right now. Your brake fluid’s low, and you’ve got a small oil leak, but those are separate problems.”
“Of course they are.”
“You want the short version? Your car’s tired,” George says.
“That makes two of us.” I sigh. “Can the hose be fixed today?”
“Already texted Carter to bring the part.” He wipes one hand on a rag. “You need to bring it into the shop soon for the rest though. Call whenever you’re ready and I’ll fit you in.”
“And the cost?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I nod solemnly, intending to worry about it later in private.
George pauses mid-wipe and squints at me.
“Your shirt’s inside out.”
I look down. Motherfucker. “I was asleep a few minutes ago, so I think I’m doing great, actually.”
“You’ve got both shoes on and your socks matching. It’s a high bar you’re setting for yourself.”
“Thank you. I worked hard to get here.”
George takes another sip, looks back at the engine, focused and slightly judgmental. He disappears under the hood again. He keeps talking while he works. “You also need new wiper blades. I can see them from here.”
“Can you just fix the hose, and we can pretend the rest of this conversation didn’t happen?”
“Sure,” he says pleasantly. “And then next week when the brakes go soft you can call me in a complete panic.”
“I don’t panic.”
The look he throws over his shoulder contains approximately ten years of contradictory evidence.
He goes back to work. At one point, he reaches for his pocket automatically, remembers his hand is covered in grease, and makes a low irritated sound.
“Hey,” he says without looking up. “Grab the VIN for me? Silver plate inside the driver-side doorframe. Need it for the repair file. Just take a photo.”
“On it, boss.”
I open the driver-side door and crouch down. The VIN plate sits exactly where he said, a little rectangle of letters and numbers that probably mean something important to mechanics and serial killers.
I take a clear photo. “Got it.”
“Send it over when you get a chance.”
I pocket my phone. “Will do.”
Carter shows up twenty minutes later with the part and a coffee for himself. He looks between me standing there uselessly and George buried in my engine.
“Good morning,” Carter says.
I nod. “Debatable, especially when George is playing hero with one bad hand.”
“Yeah.” Carter smiles. “Anything for you, he comes running.”
