“That's the one.”
Dean thought for a moment.
“Same engine family, I think. We'd have to check the part number.”
“Check it.”
Luis moved toward the storage shelves.
Sarah looked confused.
“Mr. Hale—”
“Marcus.”
She swallowed.
“Marcus, I don't want you doing work I can't pay for.”
He nodded.
“I understand.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
For several seconds, they looked at each other.
Then Marcus asked, “What time do you start work tomorrow?”
“Five-thirty.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes.”
“And if the car doesn't start?”
Sarah looked down.
“I'll walk.”
Marcus stared.
“In the dark?”
She gave an embarrassed shrug.
“It's only four miles.”
Dean slowly turned away.
Luis stopped searching the shelves.
Ethan looked up at his mother.
“Mom, it's too far.”
Sarah forced a smile.
“It's fine, honey.”
Marcus shook his head.
“No.”
She stiffened.
“No?”
He looked toward the boy.
“Ethan.”
The little boy raised his eyes.
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring me that jar.”
Sarah immediately stepped forward.
“Marcus, please—”
He raised one hand gently.
“Just a second.”
Ethan approached.
He placed the heavy jar on the workbench.
The coins rattled against the glass.
Marcus picked it up.
He turned it slowly, studying the quarters, dimes, nickels, and folded bills.
Ethan watched with his mouth slightly open.
For one terrible second, he believed the mechanic was about to say the money wasn't enough.
Then Marcus tightened the lid.
He carefully handed the jar back.
“Keep it.”
Ethan stared.
“But the car—”
“We're fixing the car.”
Sarah shook her head.
“I can't let you do that for free.”
Marcus looked toward the old silver sedan.
Then toward the bakery uniform she was wearing.
“You're not getting something for nothing.”
She frowned.
“What does that mean?”
He smiled faintly.
“It means this town needs people who get up before sunrise and make the bread everybody eats.”
Sarah stared.
Marcus continued.
“And your boy shouldn't have to spend every birthday present he's ever saved just to make sure you can get to work.”
Ethan looked down.
His eyes filled.
Sarah's voice trembled.
“Why would you do this?”
Marcus didn't answer immediately.
He looked toward the jar.
Then toward her son.
Finally, he said quietly, “Because he's trying to buy your next paycheck.”
The words broke something inside Sarah.
She covered her mouth.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
Then she looked toward Ethan.
The little boy was holding his savings against his chest, fighting tears.
And suddenly she understood what he'd been doing all week.
He wasn't saving for a game.
He wasn't counting coins because he enjoyed arithmetic.
He was worrying about her.
About rent.
About work.