Mack visited that afternoon.
Seemed accidental.
Was not.
He bought coffee.
Nora rang him up.
“One ninety-nine.”
He put two dollars on the counter.
She held up the penny change.
“Donate?”
Mack looked toward the Small Change box.
“Obviously.”
Nora dropped it in.
“You know, you owe me thirty-three cents.”
“I paid.”
“You took the coins.”
“Payment for alternator repair.”
“That was financially irresponsible.”
“You were nine.”
“Still.”
Mack smiled.
His beard was almost white now.
He had lost weight.
Not much.
Enough that Nora noticed.
“You okay?”
“Old.”
“You’re sixty.”
“Exactly.”
“Mom says that isn’t old.”
“Your mother lies.”
Nora laughed.
Mack’s health problem appeared the following year.
Heart rhythm.
Not fatal.
Not dramatic.
Enough to frighten everyone.
He collapsed inside his shop.
Luis called an ambulance.
Jenna drove to Springfield.
Nora insisted on going.
Mack woke in a hospital room and found both of them staring.
“Terrible.”
Nora crossed her arms.
“What?”
“Seeing you two first means I probably died.”
Jenna slapped his shin lightly.
“Idiot.”
Nora said:
“You scared us.”
Mack’s expression softened.
“Sorry.”
The cardiologist explained atrial fibrillation.
Treatable.
Medication.
Lifestyle.
Less caffeine.
Mack reacted as though the doctor had suggested amputation.
“Coffee isn’t negotiable.”
“It is now.”
Mack looked toward Jenna.
“Get another doctor.”
Nora laughed.
The hospitalization created an unexpected reversal.
Mack hated accepting help.
He refused meals from club members.
Refused rides.
Refused someone covering the shop.
Jenna finally said:
“You understand you are the most hypocritical man alive.”
Mack stared.
“How?”
“You built half your identity around helping people who didn’t ask.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing.
Nora smiled.
“Growth opportunity.”
Mack glared.
She loved it.
The club covered his shop for two weeks.
Jenna stocked his refrigerator.
Nora organized medication reminders because Mack’s system consisted of “remembering.”
He hated every second.
Then admitted it was useful.
At seventeen, Nora asked Mack about her father’s final months.
Not the death.
The friendship.
“Did you ever find the voicemail?”
Mack looked toward her.
They sat behind his shop.
Evening.
Motorcycles cooling in the bays.
“What voicemail?”
“The call Dad made six years before he died.”
Mack froze.
“How do you know?”
“Mom.”
Of course.
Mack looked down.
“No.”
“You changed phones?”
“Several.”
“Cloud?”
“I barely know what cloud means.”
Nora smiled.
Then became serious.
“Does it bother you?”
“Every day.”