“Check it again.”
“I already did it.”
“Yeah, and now you’re learning why mechanics check things twice.”
A dramatic sigh leaves him, but he leans back into the engine bay anyway. Thirty seconds later, he pauses.
“Oh.” The terminal moves under his hand.
“Yeah.”
He tightens it carefully this time, testing it afterward instead of assuming.
I nod once. “Better.”
That earns me the smallest grin before he wipes his hands on his jeans and reconnects the tester.
From the waiting area, his father watches the whole thing, arms crossed, a reflective vest still hanging off one shoulder from work. After a minute, he walks over while Trent keeps working at the battery.
“He talks about this place all week,” he says.
I glance over at Trent. He’s already checking the terminal again without being told, tester balanced carefully against the engine bay while he watches the voltage reading settle properly this time.
“He pays attention,” I reply. “That matters more than getting everything right first try.”
The man watches his son, pride settling across his face as the kid leans further into the engine bay like he belongs there.
Across the bay, Carter’s helping another kid torque lug nuts in the right sequence while also talking one of the veterans through motorcycle carburetor parts at the counter.
He’s always been better with people than I am, just easier to approach before people realize we’re usually saying the same thing anyway. I know I come off gruff half the time, especially when I’m fixated on something, and Carter’s better at smoothing that edge out. The kids still come to me when they want answers, but they usually go to Carter first when they’re nervous about asking it. I’m glad he’s here for that.
One of the boys pops his head out from under a hood.
“So if it cranks but won’tstart—”
“Fuel, spark, or air,” I answer automatically. “Engine needs all three. Figure out which one’s missing before you start panicking.”
The kid stares at me for an instant.
Carter translates from across the bay.
“What George means is don’t announce the engine’s dead before checking whether you forgot to plug something back in.”
“That happened one time,” the kid argues.
Around four-thirty, the last customer pickups start rolling through.
Mrs. Alvarez comes in for her minivan. Transmission line leak.
“You sure this total’s right?” she asks me at the counter, her eyes moving between me and the invoice.
“It’s right.”
The repair absolutely should’ve cost more than what’s on the paper. We both know it. But she’s still wearing hospital scrubs, and there are three exhausted kids fighting over a tablet charger in the backseat. She tries arguing once more anyway.
I hand her the keys.
“Bring it back in two weeks so I can make sure the seal’s holding.”
