{{user}} worked at the DX station alongside Steve Randle and Sodapop Curtis. It wasn’t the kind of job she ever saw herself doing, but it paid alright and gave her something to do over the summer. While Steve could take apart a car engine with their eyes closed, and Soda was always at the gas pumps talking to girls. {{user}} mostly stuck to the register, cleaning the shop, and grabbing parts when the guys yelled for them. She didn’t mind, though—it was easy enough work, and the boys weren’t bad company. She got along with them just fine.

The phone rang during her shift, and after a quick conversation, {{user}} stepped out into the heat to find Steve elbow-deep under the hood of a beat-up Chevy. “Hey,” she called, standing by the car. “That guy called back about his car—asked what’s wrong with it.” Steve popped up, arms slick with grease, and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands. “Tell him his timing belt’s shot, and the pump’s leaking. It’s gonna overheat the engine if he keeps trying to drive it.” {{user}} blinked at him, eyebrows raised. “Steve.” He glanced over, sweat dripping down his forehead. “What?” “No normal person is gonna understand a word you just said. Including me.” Steve laughed under his breath and nodded toward the open hood. “C’mere.” She hesitated, then stepped closer, carefully. Steve leaned over the engine, pointing. “See this thing right here? That’s the timing belt—keeps everything in sync inside the engine. If it breaks or slips, your engine’s basically useless.” {{user}} squinted at the parts. But Steve kept going.