Not the ordinary tiredness of somebody who had missed a night's sleep, but the deeper exhaustion of a person who had been worrying about money for so long that even standing still seemed to require effort.
Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. Her uniform was wrinkled at the sleeves, and she kept glancing toward the garage as though she knew exactly where her son had gone but couldn't decide whether to follow him.
Marcus looked back at the boy.
“What's your name?”
“Ethan.”
“Ethan what?”
“Bennett.”
Marcus nodded.
“Well, Ethan Bennett, does your mother know you're in here?”
The boy hesitated.
Then nodded.
“She told me not to.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
“That sounds like something we ought to talk about.”
Ethan looked down at the jar.
“I know.”
“Then why'd you come?”
The little boy's mouth trembled.
For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then he tightened his grip on the glass.
“Because she needs the car.”
Marcus felt something shift inside his chest.
He glanced toward the silver sedan.
“For work?”
Ethan nodded.
“She works at Sunrise Bakery.”
“What's wrong with the car?”
“It makes a bad noise.”
From the far side of the garage, another mechanic gave a quiet snort.
Marcus almost smiled.
“Son, that describes half the cars in this town.”
But Ethan didn't laugh.
“And yesterday,” he continued, “it stopped at a red light.”
Marcus's smile disappeared.
“Did it start again?”
“After a while.”
“How long?”
Ethan shrugged.
“Mom said maybe fifteen minutes.”
Marcus put down the rag.
“Did anyone look at it?”
“She called a repair shop.”
“What'd they tell her?”
Ethan swallowed.
“That it might cost too much.”
Marcus looked toward the jar.
“How much have you got there?”
“Eighty-three dollars and forty cents.”
The garage seemed to become quieter.
Dean Miller, the mechanic working at the next bench, slowly raised his head.
Dean was sixty-two, with a broad chest, white hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a black leather vest he wore whenever the weather wasn't hot enough to make it unbearable.
He'd worked beside Marcus for twenty-seven years.
He knew the difference between Marcus's ordinary silence and the silence that meant something had reached a place deep inside him.
This was the second kind.
Marcus looked toward Ethan.
“You counted all that?”
The boy nodded.
“Three times.”
“Where'd it come from?”
“Birthday money. Allowance. I sold two video games to my friend.”
Marcus stared.
“All for your mom's car?”
Ethan nodded again.
“She can't miss work.”
Marcus leaned against the workbench.
“How many days has she missed?”
“Two.”
“Because of the car?”
“One because it wouldn't start.”
“And the other?”
Ethan looked toward the parking lot.