“How much repair does this buy?”
The question was so quiet that Marcus Hale almost didn't hear it over the motorcycle engine running on the test stand.
He looked up from the black Harley-Davidson he'd been working on for the past twenty minutes, a socket wrench still in his enormous right hand. Standing just inside the open garage door was a little boy with messy brown hair, an oversized blue hoodie, faded jeans, and sneakers that had clearly survived more than one school year.
The child couldn't have been older than ten.
Both arms were wrapped around a large glass mason jar filled almost to the lid with coins.
Quarters. Dimes. Nickels. Pennies.
A few folded dollar bills had been pushed down one side of the glass.
The boy held the jar so tightly that his knuckles had turned pale. His shoulders were rounded forward, his eyes were fixed on the concrete floor, and he looked as though he expected somebody to tell him he had made a terrible mistake by coming inside.
Marcus slowly lowered his wrench.
“What was that, son?”
The boy swallowed.
He lifted the jar a little higher.
“How much repair does this buy?”
Something about the question made Marcus stop breathing for a second.
He was fifty-eight years old, six feet three inches tall, and built like a man who had spent forty years lifting motorcycle engines without ever learning that he was supposed to ask for help. His broad shoulders strained against a faded black work shirt, his forearms were covered in old tattoos, and a thick gray beard framed a face that strangers often described as frightening until they heard him speak.
Most children who entered Hale's Motor Works looked at Marcus and immediately searched for their parents.
This boy had walked directly toward him.
Not because he wasn't afraid.
Marcus could see the fear.
But because whatever had brought the child into the garage apparently mattered more than the possibility of being turned away.
Marcus wiped his hands on a shop rag.
He crouched beside the workbench until his face was closer to the boy's level.
“That depends,” he said. “What needs repairing?”
The child looked over his shoulder toward the parking lot.
“My mom's car.”
Marcus followed his gaze.
An old silver Chevrolet sedan sat near the curb. Its front bumper was scratched, one headlight was cloudy, and the paint on the hood had faded in uneven patches. Beside it stood a woman wearing a pale-yellow bakery uniform and white work shoes, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
She looked tired.