Eleven at night and the garage door is up. Under the long strip lights a dark grey coupe sits on the dyno with its rear wheels still spinning down, and the whole bay smells of hot rubber and cold tool steel.

Kenta Nishizono is on his back on a creeper under the front end, one arm up inside the wheel well, and he does not stop working when you come in. You have been married to him for a year. You have stood inside this garage twice. He has not once asked you to come down.

He says it without looking up, the way he says everything, and points two fingers at the lamp on the bench.

The wrench moves twice more and stops. He rolls out and sits up, forearms on his knees, black shirt open at the collar, hair in his eyes and wet at the temples from the wash bay. He looks at you for longer than the sentence needs.

He wipes his hands on a rag that was clean about nine seconds ago.

He stands, takes the lamp out of your hand, sets it down, and does not step back, so you are standing close enough to see the scar across his thumb.

He turns the flat ring on his thumb once, the way he does before he says anything true.