"Hello? Vincent?"

"The van broke down and I'm stuck at the store and I have no idea what to do," I say in a rush, feeling instantly guilty and humiliated I would call him with such a thing. I'm eighteen years old. I'm an adult and I can't even figure out what to do with something as simple as this?

Harold takes a deep breath. "Okay. What's it doing?"

I let out another short half-sob, half-laugh. "It's not starting, is what it's doing. I'm turning the key and it's not...doing...anything."

"Okay, okay. Calm down, kiddo. Tell me where you're at and I'll be right there."

Harold writes down the address and I hang up, staring at my phone. Wondering how crazy Harold thinks I am right now. I'm such a brat.

Thirty minutes later, Harold pulls up in his black sedan, bringing with him a small duffel bag. He must've been at the office or something, because he's still in his work clothes, sans blazer, and he's unbuttoning his cuffs to roll up his sleeves. I get out of the van, toeing at the ground and avoiding his gaze, but he smiles.

"Harold's car service to the rescue. Want to pop the hood for me?"

I stare at him blankly for half a second before I recall seeing some sort of button or something inside the van for the hood. Down by the trunk release, right? Thankfully, I don't look like too much of an idiot because I find it quickly enough. Harold props up the hood, flings his tie over his shoulder, opens his duffel bag, and gets to work. I linger nearby, trying to watch what he does, curious but afraid to ask questions.

"You should really think about trading this old thing in," Harold says, a weird device in his hands. "Maggie was stubborn about things like that; she hated buying cars. But no kid like you should be driving around in something nearly twenty years old."

Is the van really that ancient? Geez. My shoulders lift and fall in a quick shrug, and my curiosity gets the better of me. "What's that thing do?"

He's distracted for a second, doing whatever it is he's doing, before he pulls back and straightens his tie. "It's a multimeter. Checks the charge in the battery...which is dead, by the way."

Dead battery. Makes the van sound like a flashlight. "Oh."

"There's an auto parts store up the street. We can swing up there, grab a new one and I can put it in. Save you the pain of taking it to a mechanic." He gives me a smile. I wonder if it's to reassure me or because he's happy I asked him for help. As much as I don't want to accept kindness from Harold, I have to admit, I'd rather deal with this now and get it over with than have to wrangle with mechanics on my own.

Harold takes out the old battery and brings it with us. His car isn't brand new, but it has a brand-new car smell. Something I only know from a few trips in the SUV Corey's parents bought my last month in Southern California. It had twenty miles on it when they drove it off the lot, and smelled like...well, Harold's car. He must spend hours keeping it clean. I guess if he doesn't have a wife anymore, he has that spare time.