“That doesn't mean three problems.”
“Usually does.”
She smiled slightly.
“Confident.”
“Experienced.”
“Difference?”
“One gets expensive when you're wrong.”
Jake walked toward the car.
Claire followed.
He leaned through the driver-side window.
Started the engine.
Listened.
Claire watched.
Jake turned accessories on one by one.
Headlights.
Climate control.
Rear defrost.
He watched voltage behavior.
Then switched the engine off.
“Leave it.”
“For how long?”
“Forty minutes.”
“That's specific.”
“Could be thirty.”
“Then why forty?”
“Because customers get suspicious if diagnostics happen too fast.”
Claire stared.
Jake smiled.
“Kidding.”
“Mostly.”
She surprised him by laughing.
Jake opened the hood.
For the next thirty-seven minutes Claire stayed.
Most customers disappeared into the little waiting room or stared at their phones.
Claire watched.
Not pretending.
Actually watching.
Jake tested the charging system.
Removed one panel.
Inspected brake-fluid pressure.
Connected a scanner.
“Alternator output is unstable.”
Claire stepped closer.
“Replacement?”
“Yes.”
“Second problem?”
“Slow brake-fluid leak near the rear line.”
“Dangerous?”
“Not today.”
“Eventually.”
“Yes.”
“And the hesitation?”
Jake looked at the scanner.
“Transmission sensor.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I wanted something harder.”
Claire laughed.
“You always insult your customers’ problems?”
“Only expensive cars.”
“Why?”
“They've usually already insulted the owners first.”
She leaned against the workbench.
Jake glanced over.
“Careful.”
“What?”
“White blazer.”
Claire looked behind her.
Grease stain waiting inches away.
She straightened quickly.
Jake smiled.
“Garage wins eventually.”
Claire watched him writing an estimate.
“How long have you owned this place?”
“Fourteen years.”
“Started it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Jake looked up.
“That sounds like a much longer diagnostic.”
“I have time.”
“Car doesn't.”
She smiled.
“Fair.”
Jake went back to writing.
Claire looked around.
Calloway’s Auto was not impressive by conventional standards.
Two main service bays.
Old blue tool cabinets.
Concrete floor stained by decades of oil.
Photographs pinned above Jake’s workbench.
One showed a little girl holding a wrench almost as long as her arm.
Another showed the same girl, older, standing beside a science-fair project.
Claire pointed.
“Your daughter?”
Jake followed her gaze.
“Lily.”
“How old?”
“Fourteen.”
“She works here?”
“Against child labor laws, apparently.”
Claire smiled.
Jake continued:
“She likes taking things apart.”
“Putting them back together?”
“Optional.”
Claire studied the photograph.
“What does she want to do?”
“Engineering.”
“Good.”
Jake looked toward her.
“You say that like you approve.”