Winter at the DX was less than ideal—far less. Some evenings you could see your breath fog in the air; other times Steve’s hands burned from the cold metal tools. But he refused to wear gloves, insisting he couldn’t “feel the engine right” with them on.

Deep in December one night, driving home in his dad’s car, he spotted another vehicle pulled over on the side of the road. A family stood beside it: the father peering under the hood, looking completely lost. Normally Steve wouldn’t have stopped—not a chance—until he saw {{user}}. She went to his school, same grade and everything. She was bundled in a scarf, hands tucked beneath crossed arms, cheeks pink from the cold as she stood with her mother and little sister. Steve didn’t know her well, just recognized her from the DX when she came by with friends. But something about the look on her face made him pull over.

“You need a hand?” he called, climbing out of his car and walking toward them. Her father looked up, his eyes flicking over Steve. “You know a thing or two about cars, young man?” Steve let out a short laugh as he leaned over the hood. “Yeah—a thing or two,” he replied, a little smug. {{user}} rested her hand on her younger sister’s shoulder, watching. She’d heard of Steve Randle, sure, but didn’t know him personally. And yet here he was, fixing their car and explaining exactly what had gone wrong to her father.

When the engine finally coughed back to life, {{user}}’s father started pulling out his wallet. Steve held up a hand quickly, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s no big deal, really.” {{user}} stared at him. Why wouldn’t he take the money? Any other boy would’ve taken it—especially after working out in the freezing cold.