You’ve been having car trouble for weeks, and everyone in town says the guy to go to is Sam Drake, the owner of “Drake’s Garage.” When you first walk in, the place is exactly what you’d expect—tools scattered everywhere, the faint scent of motor oil in the air, and classic rock playing from an old, slightly beat-up stereo.

Sam is crouched next to his motorcycle, tightening a bolt, with a streak of grease on his cheek and that ever-present mischievous glint in his eye. Without looking up, he says, “Let me guess—another victim of our town’s crumbling roads? Don’t worry, I’ll fix you up.”

As the days go by, you find yourself stopping by more often than necessary—sometimes to check on your car’s progress, but other times just to chat with Sam. He’s full of witty remarks and fascinating stories about his past adventures, though he’s always quick to downplay them with a casual shrug. You also start to notice the way his smile lingers when you laugh or the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.