Page 4 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic

She’s wearing a T-shirt with the outfitter logo on it, knotted at the side. Shorts. Trail runners. Her hair is pulled back but not all the way, like she started a ponytail and got distracted halfway through. She has a stack of coupons in one hand and the e-bike handlebar in the other, and she’s smiling at me the way people smile at dogs they’re not sure about. Friendly, but cautious.

My pulse does something I don’t authorize it to do.

I stand up. “Let me see it.”

“Good morning to you too.”

I take the bike from her without responding and wheel it toward the bench. I can feel her watching me, which makes my hands less steady than they should be, which pisses me off.

“So this is your shop,” she says behind me. I hear her footsteps, slow, wandering. She’s looking around. “It’s very…mechanical.”

“It’s a mechanic’s shop.”

“I meant it as a compliment. There are a lot of tools. Very organized. I respect a system.”

I flip the bike and rest it on the handlebars and seat so I can get at the motor housing. “You said it died this morning.”

“This morning is when we couldn’t get it to turn on. But a rental customer brought it back yesterday saying it cut out halfway up the pass trail.”

“Halfway up?”

“That’s what they said.”

“Uphill under load is when the controller works hardest.” I unscrew the motor casing and check the wiring. Clean. No obvious shorts. I pull the battery and test the contacts with my multimeter. Full charge, solid connection. “Battery’s fine.”

“I told you I checked it.”

I glance up. She’s leaning against the doorframe of the shop bay, arms crossed, coupons tucked under one elbow. Still smiling, but the smile has shifted. Less cautious now. More like she’s settling in.

I look away and focus on the controller board. There it is. A burnt trace on the PCB, barely visible unless you know where to look. The MOSFET has blown. Probably an overcurrent event on that uphill climb.

“Found it,” I say.

“Already?”

“Controller board is fried. There’s a blown MOSFET on the circuit board. The bike pulled too much current going uphill, and the component failed.”

She pushes off the doorframe and walks over. Closer than I expect. She smells like something tropical. Pineapple, maybe.

“Can you fix it?”

“I need to order the board. It’s a specific unit for this motor. Two, maybe three days.”

“So I have to come back.”

“Unless you want to leave it here, and I’ll call you when it’s done.”

She tilts her head. “And miss all this riveting conversation? No way.”

Something in my jaw tightens. Not irritation. Something worse. Something that feels close to want, which I don’t have time for and haven’t asked for.

“I’ll call you,” I say. “When the part comes in.”

“Or I could just stop by. I’m right at the Trading Post. It’s a two-minute walk.”

“I know where the Trading Post is.”

“I know you know. I’ve seen you.”