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“No.” I should have it done in an hour. “Everything, I think.”

“Huh.” Miller grabs a silver can from the mini fridge that Dad keeps stocked and plops into a chair with a fan pointing at him. It could be thirty degrees out and he would still be by that fan.

“Is it something to do with the whole working here full-time thing? Cause I’m sure your dad wouldn’t mind if you talked to him about cutting back—”

“No.” My voice is short. Clipped. “It’s not that.”

Even if there was a slight chance that it’s Willow Creek’s changes that have me feeling this sense of unease, it’s not like it would matter. I’ve been training since I was in diapers to work here, and this uncomfortable feeling isn’t changing that. The town expects it. Dad expects it.

And I don’t hate it. That’s the worst part—I don’t hate any of it, beyond a few tasks that are just boring, but somehow it still feels like I’m doing wrong even considering learning to take over.

Miller snorts. “If you insist. Anyway, I gotta run. Your dad wants me to pick up the new parts from Barlow.” He grabs his keys and heads toward the side door. “Don’t break anything while I’m gone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Miller waves without looking back. “Jack’s in charge until I get back!”

Jack immediately yells, “NO, I’M NOT—”

But the door slams shut, and he’s gone.

The shop settles into a quieter hum—the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the click of cooling metal, the faint whistle of wind sneaking through the cracked back window. Outside, fall’s creeping in despite the sun—crisp wind, cigarette-scented leaves tumbling across the gravel, the faint smell of someone burning a brush pile down by the creek.

I try to sink back into work, and that ache in my chest lightens just enough that I can focus on what’s in front of me. Or at least it does until something scurries past my boot. Fast. Small. Heavy.

My entire body freezes, even the lights seem to buzz quieter.

“…Jack?” I call out from the car.

No answer. He must’ve slipped out from the rollers to take a call, or cuss at another engine.

Something brushes my shoe again.

Slowly, I slide out from under the car, leaving from the side instead of by the engine, heart thumping like I’m about to walk into one of those horror movies Felicity demands we watch. I don’t know what to expect—a ghost or maybe a coyote or a coyote ghost—but I’m almost disappointed when I see the scurrying creature sitting there like it owns the place is, in fact, a groundhog.

A round, grumpy, greasy little groundhog staring directly at me.

“Oh. Hey there?” I wave, I don’t know why. Felicity has told me multiple times animals don’t wave back, and yet I always expect them to.

The groundhog doesn’t blink. Or maybe it blinks so slowly it feels like it’s…judging me?

“Listen, buddy, this isn’t—uh—your usual habitat.”

It waddles toward me and I back up. It doesn’t look rabid, but then again, I have heard more than enough horror stories about the damage these guys can do.

It keeps waddling. I keep stepping back.

I hold my hands out. “Okay, no. No thank you. Please do not imprint on me.”

The thing straight up ignores me as it sits its brown scurrying butt right on my creeper.

By my tools.

“Dude,” I whisper. “Come on.”

No movement at all, just another slow blink that feels personal.

“You hungry or something?”