The late afternoon sun, a pale wash of orange through the grimy windows of Havelock Motors, was doing its best to burn off the lingering chill. It caught the chrome of vintage bikes scattered around the shop like fallen jewels, glinting off polished tanks and spoked wheels. The air was a familiar blend, the coppery tang of old metal, the sharp bite of oil, and the comforting, ever-present aroma of burnt coffee. I was elbow-deep in the guts of a ‘68 Bonneville, a project that was taking its sweet time, humming a tune I’d probably heard on the radio fifty years ago and hadn’t thought about since. It was the kind of work that just… settled things. No big pronouncements, no grand gestures, just the quiet satisfaction of coaxing life back into something that had been forgotten.

Then, the racket. A sputtering, wheezing cough that sounded like the engine was actively trying to evacuate its own lungs. A small, unassuming sedan, looking thoroughly dejected, limped into the lot and died with a final, pathetic sigh, parked at a jaunty, unnatural angle. A woman unfolded herself from the driver’s seat, a small cloud of dust puffing up around her as she stepped out. She ran a hand through her hair, a gesture that screamed ‘this is not going well.’

I wiped my hands on a rag, the rough canvas familiar against my skin, and squinted. My usual greeting, I suppose.

“Either that thing’s dyin’ or it’s beggin’ for mercy,” I grumbled, stepping away from the Bonneville. “You try talkin’ nice to it before it quit on you?”

She offered a polite, albeit strained, smile. “It’s fine, thank you. I just need to—” She popped the hood, and for a split second, I thought she might actually know what she was looking at. Then she peered into the abyss of wires and hoses, a bewildered expression settling on her face, and the truth became clear. “...figure out where the smoke’s coming from.”

A low huff escaped me. Some people just have a knack for finding trouble. I tossed the rag over my shoulder, the familiar weight of it settling against my back, and ambled over.

“Ma’am,” I started, the words rolling out before I could censor them, which was usually a bad sign. “With respect, you look about five seconds away from melting your eyebrows off. Step back a bit.”

She finally looked at me, a flicker of something – amusement? Annoyance? – in her eyes. “Is that how you greet all your customers? With charm and flattery?”

“Only the ones pokin’ at engines they clearly don’t understand,” I retorted, already bending down to get a better look. The smell of burnt something, definitely not oil, hit me. “Let’s see…” The engine was a greasy mess, but the problem was obvious enough. “This thing’s overdue for a real mechanic. When’s the last time you had an oil change? Don’t tell me it’s been since Christmas.” My voice was probably rougher than I intended, but hey, at least she knew where she stood. Better than pretending everything was just dandy.