But the emergency kit contained almost nothing useful.
Two hex keys.
One tiny screwdriver.
A plastic tire lever.
He snorted.
The woman noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“They give you a four-thousand-dollar wheel assembly and a tool kit made for eyeglasses.”
Despite everything, her mouth moved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
The single father reached into his jacket and removed a folding multitool.
He worked the packed ice free.
The front caster loosened.
Then he checked the brake.
Bent retaining clip.
Not catastrophic.
But without repair, the brake arm could catch the wheel unexpectedly.
“You work on wheelchairs?”
the woman asked.
He shook his head.
“Machines.”
“What kind?”
“Mostly the kind management believes maintain themselves.”
She watched his hands.
Strong.
Scarred across the knuckles.
Grease still embedded near the nails despite washing before leaving work.
He removed the damaged retaining clip.
“You have a replacement?”
“No.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out several small pieces of hardware.
The woman raised an eyebrow.
“You carry random metal in your pocket?”
“Occupational disease.”
He selected a spring clip.
Wrong size.
Then another.
Closer.
He bent it slightly with pliers from the multitool.
The woman studied him.
“You shouldn’t modify safety hardware.”
He looked up.
“You’re right.”
She seemed surprised.
He continued.
“This is temporary. Enough to keep the lever clear until you get the correct part.”
“You say that like a liability attorney is standing behind you.”
“My factory makes mobility components.”
Her expression changed.
“What factory?”
He did not notice.
He was focused on the wheel.
“Northstar Mobility.”
The woman became very still.
He pushed the clip into place.
“The Riverside plant?”
“Yeah.”
She stared.
He rotated the wheel.
Smooth.
Applied brake.
Released.
Again.
Then he looked up.
“You know it?”
Her answer came after a fraction too much time.
“I’ve heard of it.”
The single father nodded.
“Everybody has lately.”
“Why?”
He laughed without humor.
“Because apparently being about to close makes you interesting.”
The woman’s fingers tightened around the blanket across her lap.
“Close?”
He finally noticed her reaction.
“Whole assembly division. Friday.”
The wind pushed snow beneath the shelter.
He stood.
“Okay.”
“That will roll.”
“Slowly.”
“Don’t trust the brake on a slope until somebody replaces the clip.”
The woman stared at him.
“When did they announce the closure?”
“Officially?”
“Monday.”
“Unofficially?”
“Six months ago, if you knew what to watch.”
She looked away.
For a moment the cold seemed to disappear from her attention.
Then the single father noticed her hands shaking harder.
He removed his leather jacket.
She looked at him.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“I have a truck.”
“You’re wearing a shirt.”