The Single Dad straightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Her answer was automatic.
Practiced.
She pointed toward the car again.
“The estate company is clearing the property.”
“House goes on the market Friday.”
“Everything inside either gets kept, donated, sold, or thrown away.”
“And this goes away.”
The Single Dad looked at the vehicle again.
“How much do you know about old cars?”
“Enough to know rust usually means garbage.”
“That isn't always how it works.”
She smiled without warmth.
“Please don't tell me you're going to become sentimental about a car you met ten minutes ago.”
“I’m not sentimental.”
“What are you?”
“Curious.”
The Woman checked her watch.
“I don’t have time for curious.”
The Single Dad crouched again.
His daughter had once told him curiosity was the reason he could never throw anything away.
She was nine.
She was probably right.
He owned a small restoration and repair garage fifteen miles away.
Most of his work was ordinary.
Brakes.
Alternators.
Suspension.
Transmission problems.
The jobs that actually paid rent.
Restoration work was slower.
Less predictable.
And much harder to make profitable unless the client understood that a fifty-year-old car did not care about deadlines.
But old cars had become the part of the business he loved most.
Machines carried evidence.
Original fasteners.
Stampings.
Welding patterns.
Factory chalk marks.
Paint hidden beneath carpet.
The smallest details could tell stories people had forgotten.
This car had details he did not understand.
That interested him.
The Single Dad wiped dirt from a section of the lower door frame.
The Woman sighed loudly.
“What now?”
“Wrong hinges.”
She stared.
“Excuse me?”
“For the production version.”
“What production version?”
He leaned closer.
The door hinges were hand-fabricated.
Not replacement parts.
Not exactly.
They looked too old.
The welds looked period-correct.
But they were rough.
Almost experimental.
He moved to the rear wheel.
The wheel opening was wider than he expected.
Then he checked the roofline.
Then the windshield angle.
Something was off.
Not wrong.
Different.
The Woman watched him.
“You’re doing this to negotiate more money, aren't you?”
The Single Dad looked up.
“What?”
“You’ve suddenly discovered mysterious hinges.”
“I haven’t asked you for money.”
“You will.”
“No.”
“You all do.”
The words came out harder than necessary.
The Single Dad stood.
“Who is ‘you all’?”
The Woman paused.
“Contractors.”
“Mechanics.”
“People dealing with estates.”