Page 22 of Rhodes

Outside, an engine idles, then pulls off the curb and rolls down the street.

The house goes quiet, just the announcer murmuring about a timeout.

I pretty much have her school schedule down, and neither of us has discussed it. I notice when she comes and goes. It's Tuesday. She's got bio at eleven and lab after, and she'll be back around three, maybe a little later if the lab runs long or she goes to do something after class, and then she has her meeting tonight.

I lie there with all of it sitting in my head, and I didn't reach for a single piece of it. It built itself while I wasn't paying attention, a whole map of her day folded up neat where I can find it.

I keep the phone on my chest and stare at the ceiling.

On the television, the Pelicans jog back onto the floor, still losing, worse now, and it's obvious they aren't coming back. Why do they do this to me?

The Land Cruiser's out there, same spot in the driveway, parked crooked with the back end swung wide because that's how she left it the last time it ran. A week ago now, on a Tuesday.

I get up to refill my water, and I look at it again through the front glass. I carry the pretzel bag to the kitchen and look at it a third time on the way back. Faded blue paint, dust gone gray on the windshield, one tire I don't love the look of.

She told me what was wrong with it a week ago, with grease still on her knuckles, and hasn't brought it up since. No plan, no shop, not a ride to a shop.

And I haven't asked, because that's the point. She doesn't want me running her errands or making her calls, and asking about the car is one short step from doing something about the car. So I let it sit, and so does she.

I drop back onto the couch with four minutes left in the game I recorded yesterday. I make it about ninety seconds.

A dead starter is not a mystery. It's a Tuesday problem I could've had solved by Wednesday. The thing's taking up curb space and collecting dust, and looks like shit sitting out there, if I'm completely honest.

I've got a free day until I meet Deuce at two o'clock, and I've known engines since before I was old enough to drive one. Leaving a car dead when I have nothing else to do but watch the Pelicans lose again, when I can fix it in a couple of hours tops, is just stupid.

That's all it is, me being practical. I get up and pull her key off the hook by the door.

February light comes at me thin and bright when I step out. It's not frigid, but it's a chilly morning. The Cruiser's door handle is cold enough to bite. I fold down into the seat, knees up around the wheel, and turn the key.

Click. One hard, flat click with nothing behind it.

"Yeah," I tell it. "Figured."

I find the hood release and go to the front. The latch is stiff, then it gives, and I prop the hood on the rod. Dust and old oil, the smell that lives in every engine bay that's seen a few years.

The battery terminals are clean enough. I grab each cable and give it a hard wiggle. Nothing moves. I climb back in and try the key again.

Click.

Nothing else, no crank, no slow, dragging attempt to turn over, but the dash lights stay bright.

I stare through the windshield for a second. If the battery connection looks good, it could still be a weak battery, but that click has me thinking starter.

I get out, walk back to the front, lean on the edge of the truck, cold metal under my palms, and do a careful pass over the engine looking for anything else out of place.

One call, and there's a truck here inside an hour, the Cruiser at a shop before lunch, a bill I'd never mention. That's the Stone move, throwing money at a thing until it disappears, taking the whole of it off her plate whether she asked or not.

This is different. This is just a wrench on a car outside my own house.

I drop the hood shut and head in for my keys.

The parts store smells like rubber and oil. I know the aisle before I'm through the door, and I've got the box in my hand before the kid in the red polo looks up from his register.

"Just the starter?"

"Yep, hopefully that'll do it for today."

He rings it up, I pay cash, and I'm pulling back into my driveway within thirty minutes of deciding to do this.