“Lower hose coupling.”
“English?”
He glanced up.
“Something hit the underside.”
“Probably ice.”
“Cracked part of the connector or knocked the clamp.”
“Coolant leaked.”
“Then engine got hot.”
“Can you repair it?”
“Properly?”
“No.”
“Enough to reach the lodge?”
He thought.
“Maybe.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I prefer stronger confidence than maybe.”
“I prefer not lying to stranded people.”
That answer stopped her.
He looked toward his truck.
“I’ve got hose sleeve, clamps, coolant, tools.”
“Why?”
“I’m a mechanic.”
“You said sometimes.”
He smiled.
“I contain contradictions.”
She laughed softly.
Then asked:
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes if I’m lucky.”
“And if you’re not?”
“Thirty.”
She looked at the snow.
“Do it.”
He began walking toward his pickup.
She called after him.
“How much?”
He turned.
“For looking?”
“For fixing it.”
“We’ll discuss that if it works.”
“I’d rather discuss it now.”
He studied her.
“Hundred bucks.”
She stared.
“For repairing a Rolls-Royce on a mountain during a snowstorm?”
“Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
The man shrugged.
“Then two hundred.”
“You’re bad at negotiation.”
“You should meet my daughter.”
He walked away.
The girl climbed out despite previous instructions the moment he opened the truck’s rear door.
She wore a purple puffer jacket, snow boots, and a pink knit hat with a pom-pom large enough to have its own weather system.
The man stared at her.
“What did I say?”
“You need help.”
“With tools.”
“I have hands.”
“You have homework.”
“I finished.”
“Then sit inside.”
The girl looked toward the billionaire.
“Hi.”
The billionaire smiled.
“Hello.”
The girl’s eyes widened slightly at the Rolls-Royce.
“That’s a fancy car.”
Her father opened a toolbox.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Is she famous?”
The billionaire almost laughed.
The man said:
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because famous people have cars like that.”
“Rich people too.”
The girl looked at the billionaire.
“Are you rich?”
Her father froze.
“Get in the truck.”
The billionaire laughed.
“It’s all right.”
The girl waited.
The woman considered.
“Yes.”
“How rich?”
“Truck.”
her father repeated.
The girl sighed.
“Adults hate numbers.”
She climbed back inside.
The man closed the door.