I figured Silva might know a kid who’d jump at the chance to be paid to change oil and spark plugs, plus get an occasional hand in a more complex engine repair. It was worth shutting down a little early to go chat with him after he finished his first week of teaching driver’s ed. We met in his shop where two kids leaned under a hood while he directed whatever they were working on.

“Summer class, Mr. S?” I asked, crossing the concrete floor, offering my hand.

He was still the biggest man in town and had been since he was seventeen—the high school’s only wrestler to ever win state. Rumor had it he’d turned down an offer to go pro to care for his terminally ill mother and stayed after she passed to finish raising his little sister, who went on to college and then law school.

“Well I’ll be—if it ain’t Boyce Wynn.” We shook, his mitt still engulfing mine, though not as noticeably as it had when I was his student. “Making me proud, son.”

I swallowed and nodded, grateful when he turned toward the students.

“No formal class. Just a few students who were more automotively curious than the rest. We meet in the afternoons, work on their cars or donated vehicles—repair work, restorations. Gives ’em something to do besides bein’ thugs all summer.” The would-be thugs eyed us over their shoulders. One wore safety goggles. The other was holding a wrench. “Adams,” Silva barked. “Goggles. Goddammit, these kids. One of ’em’ll put an eye out and who’ll get blamed? Me.”

I chuckled, having heard this exact same tirade a hundred times years ago, directed at me more often than not.

He waved a hand at the Adams kid. “Come meet Mr. Wynn.” It threw me for a loop, hearing Mr. Wynn from Silva—about me. To me, he said, “This is the one we talked about. Ignores orders half the time but a natural under the hood—like you. Has some potential beneath that know-it-all façade.”

“Ain’t no façade, Mr. Silva.” The kid smirked, chin lifted. “I know a lot.” This was Silva’s recommendation for my first employee? A smartass who sounded about twelve and looked like a scrawny twig in those coveralls?

And then the kid sat down in the wheelchair I hadn’t noticed and wheeled quickly around a stack of tires and a toolbox¸ heading our way. My misgiving morphed into disbelief.

“Boyce, this little twerp is Samantha Adams. Samantha, Mr. Wynn.”

A girl. In a wheelchair.

Her brass-blond hair was chopped short and stuck out in every direction, and her eyes were gray as an angry fog rolling into the gulf. “It’s Sam. Jesus, Mr. Silva.” She scowled at her teacher and shook my hand like she meant to crush my fingers.

She yelped when I squeezed back.

“Sam.”

Withdrawing her hand and flexing her fingers, she sized me up. “So how much is the pay and what hours do you expect me to work?”

Goddamn. Who the hell was interviewing who?

“Minimum wage, and we can talk hours if I decide to hire you.”

“If? So what do you have a problem with—my chair or my gender or my sexual orientation?”

Jesus Christ, I was ready to throat-punch Silva. I had a sneaking suspicion he was about to pay me back and then some for every smartass retort I ever made or rule I ever disregarded in his class. “Better flick those chips off your shoulder,” I said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the first two, and I don’t want to know details of the third.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Meaning you have a problem with it?”

“Meaning the only sex life I have any interest in is my own, which—let’s just throw this out there right now so we’re clear—is none of your damned business. I may be swamped and need help, but not at the expense of pissing off my customers. If you want the job, convince me you won’t be a bitch or a whiny brat and tell me what you can do for me. I run a garage, not a nursery.”

She blinked, silent, which I assumed wasn’t usual for her, and my phone buzzed.

Pearl:  Hey. I know you’re probably busy tonight but I have a problem and I don’t know who else to talk to.

Me:  Never too busy for you. Just tell me where.

Pearl:  Your place? When can I come?

Me:  You tell me, I’ll be there.

Pearl:  Now?

Me:  Come on then, girl. See you in a few.

I glanced down at Sam, who was chewing her lip. “I have to get,” I told her. “Think about the job and come by Monday if you want it. We’ll do a one-week trial.”

She frowned up at me. “One week? Isn’t trial employment usually like a month or ninety days?”

“It’s however long I say it is. Take it or leave it.” I turned to Silva and stretched my hand out over Samantha Adams’s head. “Thanks. I think.”

The bastard had the nerve to laugh.

Pearl

The “highway”—two lanes, one in either direction, with stoplights—was clogged with summer vacationers. Even so, it only took ten minutes to get to Boyce’s place. He was sitting on the top step of his trailer, smoking, one booted foot resting a couple of steps down on the cracked concrete and the other crossed beneath it. The dark plaid shirt—sleeves rolled up, unsnapped with a navy tee underneath—looked good on him. I tried to remember the last time he hadn’t looked good to me and couldn’t.

The doors to the garage’s two bays were both shut, though it wasn’t yet six. I parked in the driveway and got out.