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“Okay.”

He waits for me to say more.

I don’t.

“Well.” He takes a slurp of his Coke and tries again. “Do you know their neighbor on the left side? Wyatt?”

Why is it everyone’s mission in town to talk about that guy?

“He’s real nice,” Joel goes on. “My wife Mindy’s friends with him. He owns a flower shop. Just look close enough, you’ll see his fingerprints all over Spruce. Down at the park. Inside the church.”

The way he just invited himself up on the driveway.

Kicking my tools around.

Bearing that basket like he’s the self-appointed head of some neighborhood wellness committee.

Smiling.

This is what happens when you give in to the smile. You turn into a greasy mechanic going on about fingerprints.

But there’s something about that Wyatt I can’t put my finger on …

Joel nudges me. “What? Hate flowers or something?”

Guess I’m making a face.

And I guess I make another one, because he shrinks away and immediately seems to regret nudging me.

A head appears at the door. It’s the guy from the front whose name I never learned. “Hey, I got someone out here who needs—”

“On it,” I say, not caring what the job is.

I head into the garage and fling a rag over my shoulder. The customer, a fidgety twenty-something with short curly hair and a goatee, starts spilling his story. I’ve already popped the hood and am scanning the engine, gnawing on the side of my tongue.

“Folks at Fairview Auto said I needed a mass air flow sensor,” he goes on, sounding overwhelmed, “but those go for over $100 plus labor, so I wanted to get a second opinion. The car wasn’t this rumbly before. All I went in for was a damned oil change, and they offered a new air filter, I said sure, but then the check engine light came on a day later, and so I went back, and their computer says I needed to replace my mass air flow sensor, which I guess is just a coincidence ‘cause I—”

“No such thing as coincidence.”

He jumps when I speak for the first time. “Huh?”

I get out my torque wrench and work on the cover. The filter flops out like a dead fish the second it’s open. I pull it out. Show it to him. “Does this yellowed-ass thing look new to you?” I turn the filter over and run a finger over a wide circular indent, which the customer appears surprised by. “Jammed this old thing in wrong. See? Didn’t even seat it properly. No wonder the car thinks your sensor’s fucked.” I go to the wall, fetch a new air filter, tear it out of the box, and pop it in. “Bright white. New.” I wrench the cover back on. By now, Joel’s come out of the break room to watch the show, his eyebrows tugged together. “We can unplug the battery and clear the code,” I explain, wiping my hands with the rag, “but in three, maybe four more driving cycles, should clear itself.”

The customer blinks at me. “So … I don’t need a new sensor?”

“Pretty sure that’s what I said.” After a quick look, I slap shut the hood. “Saved you a couple hundred bucks. You’re welcome. Send my regards to Fairview Auto.” I head back to the break room.

Few minutes later, chatterbox Joel’s back. “The car’s running smooth as butter now. Wow. That was … That was somethin’. Don’t like to talk bad about another shop, but Fairview almost did that guy dirty.” He shakes his head and whistles. “You saved him a lot of unwarranted trouble. Your uncle didn’t say anything about you being a car whisperer.” He smiles. “You’re a good man, Diego.”

“Wouldn’t go that far.” I sip my coffee and look away.

He chuckles. “You allergic to compliments or something?” At my silence, he lifts his hands. “Got it. Anyway, Mindy’s stopping by with the kids in a few minutes, so uh … so I’ll be …” He runs out of words and shuffles off.

Like I said, engines are easy.

People, I gave up on understanding long ago.

When I’m back home, it’s the evening, but the sun’s still up like it’s high noon. It bakes me alive as I yank the cord of the old and stubborn lawnmower over and over, trying to wake the dang thing up.