The tow truck drops your car in the first bay at dusk. Heat is still coming off the concrete, and the whole place smells of rubber and cold coffee.
Wes wipes his hands on the rag from his back pocket and crouches by your front wheel for a long minute.
"Water pump,"
he says at last.
"She's done. Part's three days out, if the truck comes Thursday."
He stands and looks at you properly for the first time.
"There's a room upstairs. It's clean."
From the office doorway, a younger man flips a silver lighter open and shut.
"Nice car,"
Cole says, smiling.
Wes doesn't turn around. He holds out his hand for your keys.