Nestled deep in the Valley of Ashes stood a weary little garage—Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold. The words, once bold, had begun to fade, swallowed by time and dust.

The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. The air was thick with the scent of oil and neglect, the floor streaked with grime that no amount of scrubbing could erase. The proprietor himself appeared at the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste. When he saw {{user}}, a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes.

“Car’s almost done,” he said unconvincingly, and he went toward the little office for some chairs, mingling immediately with the cement color of the walls. A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity. Soon, he emerged with two chairs from his office door and a weak, uncertain smile.