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“It has.”
“You said I shouldn’t ignore noises or skip maintenance.”
“Correct.”
“And I need the proper license, insurance, and registration before I ride it.”
“That’s right,” he says with a nod.
“Is there anything else?”
He glances at the scooter. “The gas gauge sticks occasionally.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning don’t trust it with your life.”
“That seems manageable.”
“And the starter can be temperamental when it’s cold.”
“So, it has personality,” I reply with a smile.
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“Nothing’s perfect,” I say, looking down at the scooter. “But I think she and I will get along just fine.”
He studies me for a beat longer than the moment probably calls for, like he’s deciding whether to say something else. Whatever it is, he lets it go.
“Alright,” he says. “Come on inside. Let’s get you a scooter, kid.”
Kid.
Nobody’s called me that in years, not since I was actually one. It shouldn’t land the way it does, warm and a little unsteady, like something in my chest just got handed a chair to sit in.
He holds the office door open for me, and I catch the name stitched into the front of his coveralls as I pass. Jon.
“Jon,” I say, testing it out loud. “I feel like I should know that before you take my money.”
“Should’ve said something sooner.” He lets the door swing shut behind us. “Force of habit not introducing myself. Most folks who come through here already know who I am.”
“Well, now I do too.” I stick my hand out. “Astra.”
His grip is warm and calloused. Exactly what I’d expect from someone who spends his days elbow-deep in engines. “I know. Marge already texted half the town.”
“Small towns.”
“You have no idea.”
The office smells like rubber, coffee, and motor oil. A fan hums on top of a filing cabinet, pushing warm air around the room. Photographs cover one wall: motorcycles, groups of people standing beside them, charity rides, and holiday toy drives.
Most of the people wear leather vests bearing the same emblem. I don’t look closely enough to read it.
Jon places a single form on the counter. "This just says I'll hold it for thirty days with a deposit. If you need more time, let me know."
“Okay.”
He rings up the deposit, and I tap my card against the reader. The receipt prints a moment later, and I sign.
