Page 1 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic

1

CALLIE

The e-bike is dead.

Not mostly dead. Not limping-along dead. Full, absolute, not-a-flicker-of-life dead. I’ve already tried the power button six times, which feels like a reasonable number before accepting defeat.

“Customer brought it back yesterday saying it cut out halfway up the pass trail,” Kendall tells me, crouching next to it in the back room of the outfitter. The bike is propped against the wall between a rack of demo snowshoes and a bin of clearance water bottles. Not a dignified resting place. “I tried powering it on this morning. Nothing.”

She stands and looks at it the way she looks at most problems in the shop. Calmly, efficiently, already three steps ahead. She manages the Copper Peak location of the chain like she owns it, and half the time I forget she doesn’t.

“It’s a rental unit,” she says. “We can’t have it sitting here. Try this number.”

“Got it.” I peel the note off her finger and head for the front of the shop, where I can make the call without the AC unit drowning me out.

The morning rush at the Trading Post is just starting. It’s this little cluster of shops tucked off Prospect Street in converted mining buildings from the 1880s, all old stone and exposed timber arranged around a cobblestone courtyard.

It’s the best part of Copper Peak, if you ask me. Lea’s coffee is already drifting through the courtyard, that dark roast that hits you before you even get through the entrance. A couple of hikers are studying the trail map outside the bookstore. Normal Tuesday in a ski town pretending to be a summer town.

I lean against the doorframe and dial.

It rings twice.

“Meyer’s.” The voice is flat. Low. Not unfriendly, exactly, but not making any effort in that direction either.

“Hi there. I’m calling from the outfitter at the Trading Post. We’ve got an e-bike that died on us, and I was hoping you could take a look.”

Silence. Then, “What kind of e-bike.”

Not a question. A demand.

“The green kind,” I say.

More silence. Longer this time.

“The green kind,” he repeats.

“Yes. It’s green. And electric. And it has pedals. I’m giving you all the relevant information here.”

“You’re really not.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. He sounds so deeply annoyed, and I’ve been on the phone for maybe twelve seconds. That has to be some sort of record.

“Okay,” I say. “It’s a pedal-assist e-bike. A rental customer brought it back yesterday. Said it cut out on them halfway up the pass trail. This morning it won’t turn on at all. No power. The little screen on the handlebars is blank.”

“Is the battery seated?”

“Is the battery seated,” I repeat slowly, like I’m writing it down. “I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t know what that means.”

“It means, ‘Is the battery clicked into the frame all the way?’”

“I can go check.”

“Did you check before you called?”

I pause. “No. I called you first. I’m an optimist.”

Something happens on his end. It might be a breath. It might be a laugh that dies before it gets anywhere. Hard to tell.