The woman hopped out of the Jeep. In the back, there was a dog, tongue out, wide-mouthed, practically smiling. Anthony was not a dog person, so he couldn’t have said what kind it was. He’d wanted a dog when he was a kid. He’d wanted one so badly. But his father had said no. He wasn’t interested in the mess, the noise, the potential for distraction. His mother had bought him a consolation prize: a hamster.

Where had he just seen a Jeep like this?

The woman was somewhere in her thirties. When she smiled, lines shot out from the corners of her eyes. They disappeared when she stopped smiling. She peered under the hood alongside him. She smelled like vanilla, and he noticed a white smudge along her temple. He had a sudden and disconcerting urge to wipe it gently away. Get ahold of yourself, Anthony. It had just been so long since he’d touched another human being, that was all.

“Maybe you could give me a ride, if it’s not too inconvenient?” he said. “I’ll have to get someone to look at it. Maybe get it towed. I’m not sure what happened. It just—” He made an exploding sort of gesture with his hands. “It just shuddered and stopped.”

“I’m someone,” said the woman. “I’m looking at it right now. Hang on.” She nodded crisply, then went back to her Jeep, rummaged around, and returned with a tool case. “Was it making sort of a tick-tick-tick noise?”

“Yes,” said Anthony, amazed and mollified. “Tick-tick-tick is exactly the way to describe it.”

“For how long?”

“Well,” said Anthony, “I guess I don’t know. It’s not my car. I’m borrowing it. It came with the house I’m staying in. I haven’t been driving it long. And I haven’t gone very far.” His discomfiture gained strength.

The woman proceeded to use a wrench of some sort to pry off a black piece of plastic. Her confidence and grace put Anthony in mind of the guy who worked the oyster bar at Island Creek in Boston. “Yup,” she said, pointing. “It’s your timing belt.” She rummaged around inside the engine and held up a piece of broken rubber. “Broke right in half. Must’ve been ticking for a while? You had some oil coming out of the motor, maybe? Those were all warning signs.”

Had there been oil coming out of the motor? Anthony strained to remember. “Like I said, it’s not my car. So I don’t know.”

“Hop in.” The woman gestured toward the Jeep. “I’ll run you wherever you’re going. This car isn’t going anywhere until it gets a new belt.” She closed the hood and peered at the front of the car. “What is it, anyway? A ’95?”

“I don’t know,” Anthony said. He hadn’t thought to wonder about that. He’d just thought: Old.

She tapped the hood. “Well, that’s what I’d guess. A ’95. Give or take. We’ll give Bob Herbert a call, have him tow this to his shop.” She gestured toward the passenger door, and Anthony climbed inside. The dog reclined toward him affably, its head hooking over the passenger seat. Anthony leaned away.