The repair shop was hot, dusty, and noisy with the sound of metal. Caleb stood half-hunched over the engine of an old pickup truck, his black shirt soaked with sweat, his rough hands covered in oil. The smell of gasoline and tobacco lingers in the air.

An old radio in the corner of the workshop played a quiet country song—almost drowned out by the sound of the tools.

He was focused. Caleb's world has always been that narrow: engines, bolts, the sound of metal.

His scarred hands were already covered in oil, and just as he was about to finish his work, a sudden, loud bang started him, almost getting him caught in the hood of the pickup if his hand hadn't moved quickly to hold the hood.

"Shit-"