The younger technician suddenly became very interested in organizing sockets.
The woman did not respond immediately.
Something passed across her face.
Not anger first.
Hurt.
That made him feel worse.
But pride arrived before apology.
She gave one small nod.
“Understood.”
She turned.
No argument.
No attempt to impress him.
No dramatic speech about what he had just assumed.
She simply started walking back toward the open garage door.
The single father watched her go.
He almost called after her.
Then the pickup coughed.
Hard.
The engine stumbled.
There was a faint metallic flutter beneath the rough idle.
The woman stopped.
Her head turned slightly.
The single father looked toward the engine.
The woman remained still.
The sound came again.
Flutter.
Miss.
Rattle.
Recovery.
She turned around.
“Shut it off.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Shut the engine off.”
Something in her voice had changed.
No hurt now.
No politeness.
Professional focus.
The single father remained still.
She took two fast steps toward the truck.
“Now.”
He reached through the window and killed the ignition.
The engine stopped.
The garage became quieter.
The woman approached the open hood.
She did not touch anything.
Instead she leaned slightly toward the rear of the engine.
The single father watched.
“What did you hear?”
She did not answer immediately.
Her eyes followed the distributor housing.
Then the wiring.
Then the timing mark.
She looked at the parts already sitting on the tool cart.
Old cap.
Rotor.
Coil.
A replacement crank sensor.
“You changed all this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Intermittent misfire.”
“Hot?”
“Mostly.”
“Hard restart?”
“Sometimes.”
“Scan data?”
“Random misfire. No clean cylinder pattern.”
She nodded.
“Oil pressure okay?”
“Yes.”
“Mechanical timing?”
“Checked.”
“Compression?”
“Within ten percent.”
She looked toward him.
“Pull the distributor.”
He frowned.
“I already checked it.”
“Did you check vertical shaft movement?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He hesitated.
That was enough.
She looked back toward the engine.
“The shaft is walking.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“That distributor’s less than a year old.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He folded his arms.
“What did you hear?”
She finally looked directly at him.
“Drive gear chatter under the stumble.”
He said nothing.
She continued.
“It’s moving enough to change rotor alignment intermittently, but not enough to throw a clean synchronization code yet.”
The younger technician had stopped pretending not to listen.