BOBBY HAD GONE INSOMNIAC with worry. Nights, he sang along to Freddy Fender and the Texas Tornados, sometimes listened to Coast to Coast AM for the alien sightings, the true ghost stories, the theories about Quantitative Easing and the printing of money that weren't so different from those he heard on NPR during the day. Bobby couldn't square it, but he loved to imagine himself with the powers of the Fed—conjuring his missing mortgage payments out of thin air, piling stacks of bills on some banker's desk. Instead, he worked on the Falcon, patching the tires, replacing the fuel line. He found a sort of Zen in the work, an avoidance of his own mind. He was good at diagnosis, at repair, his skills an exact match to those the recession had devalued.

He'd scavenged some parts from the junk piles, given others a good cleaning when he would usually have thrown them out. He thought about all the different things the word recession could mean—smooth beaches in low tide, off-grid houses with solar panels and composting toilets, hearts like ships shrinking against the horizon, drifting inevitably away from each other. He sometimes set the tools down for a minute or two, exhaustion sweeping over him, everything he lifted heavier than it actually was.

Amy came into the garage with two cups of coffee, handed one to him, and he marveled again at the million small gifts she managed to give. She leaned against the Falcon, the steam from her coffee rising to her face. “How's it going in here?”

“You ever think what we'll do if nobody but Mom and Dad give me a car to fix?”

“Give it time, Bobby,” she said. “It's not like all the other mechanics are thriving. Nobody has money for anything. Everyone is just . . . waiting, I guess.”

“Can't wait forever.” If I could just invent work the way the government invents money, Bobby thought to say, but he decided to keep quiet.

“Yeah, I hear you.” Amy tossed her hair, brought her mug to her mouth with both hands cupped around it. “I guess I keep hoping something bigger is going to give. That it's true what the papers say, that the recession is over, that the work is going to come back.”

Bobby swore, let a fist drop on the side of the Falcon, saw Amy startle and jump, saw her brow furrow, her eyes reflect his anger back at him. “I don't see how that shit's helping, Bobby.” She looked at the ceiling, her face reddening, her eyes welling. “I keep trying to make the best of all of this, to keep both our spirits up, and you're just . . . I mean, I love you, Bobby, but you aren't doing any of the work.”