“That’s because we love you and don’t want you dead in a ditch, you cranky old coot,” Jillian fires back, then turns to me with a renewed sweetness in her voice. “Why don’t you use the truck while you’re here? Lord knows you don’t need to be stuck here twenty-four seven.” She pulls a set of keys from the hook by the door and places them in my palm. “You’d best eat that bagel before you go, though. We can’t have you driving on an empty stomach.”

A grateful smile breaks out over my face. Can’t argue with that.

And gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve been mothered by anyone, a small part of me is appreciative of the fact that someone, anyone, is fussing over me.

Once I’ve finished my breakfast and made sure there are no more chores Jillian needs help with, I slip out the door. In the gravel driveway, I unlock the truck and climb into the driver’s seat.

Based on the dust gathered on the dashboard, I’m guessing it’s been months since anyone has touched this thing, but when I slip the key into the ignition, it turns over easily. I adjust my seat and the mirrors, and even manage to find a radio station that isn’t half bad. But when I reach over to throw this rust bucket in reverse, my whole body freezes, and not from the cold.

Nobody told me the truck was a stick shift.

I suck in a steadying breath. Okay. Plenty of people drive a stick shift, right? I can probably figure this out on my own.

I reach for my phone, ready to type HOW TO DRIVE A STICK SHIFT FOR DUMMIES into the search bar, but I’m quickly reminded of the lack of service out here. Either I can go find help or try to navigate this thing on my own.

Opting for the second option, I grab the gearshift and put it into first gear, then second. Suddenly, the truck stalls with a lurch, having moved only a few feet down the drive.

Great.

“What’s going on here?” a low, cranky voice growls, barely audible over the clicking and sputtering of the truck.

It’s Graham, looking even more displeased than usual as he frowns at me, his arms folded over his chest. I turn the old manual crank to roll down the window so I can explain my plight, stuttering as much as the engine.

“I—I’m just trying to get to town, and your mom told me I could borrow Grandpa Al’s truck. And it’s, it’s . . .” I sigh, releasing the steering wheel in surrender. “Do you know how to drive a stick shift?”

“Yes.”

Relief floods my system. “Thank God. Any pointers?”

His frown deepens. “Sorry, I don’t have time for this.”