So I have the stuff in here, Jo says, the boxes in the popped trunk full of empty canisters, filters, spare fuel lines. Unfolding a thick packet of paper covered in diagrams and smudged green ink. Erik frowns, squinting in the dim light of the garage. Whose instructions are those? A guy in town wrote it out for me. He done this type of conversion before? Jo shrugs. His friend did one. Erik looks at her, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. Reads. Xie helps Jo unload the equipment onto the table in the corner, plus four gallons of used vegetable oil that smell like rancid french fries. Erik props up the hood of the Jetta. You sure you want to do this? he says. It’s a nice car and it may not run the same. Yeah, she says, I’m sure. What about your parents? Jo grins. I’ll say you had nothing to do with it. We just need to like put in the new fuel system, settle the oil for a week, and, boom, we’ll be ready to go. Great, Erik says under his breath. Barest hint of rain in the air, more of a mist, sun filtered gray onto the blacktop through the garage door. Jo rests her knee on the fender. Can you show me what’s up? she asks, and Erik makes room, head leaning close to hers, low voice, See this? Xie goes inside to make lunch. P. at the stove, stirring a pot of chili. Xie takes a tomato, a knife. Spill of seeds. P.’s perpetual grin. Is it soft, beloved. Yes. Pressing a piece between his teeth. P. drawing in the juice on the cutting board, the tip of his finger turning red. Fidelitas. What does it mean, Xie asks. It means that you are mine. Jo bangs in and he freezes. Almost sure no one can see but still. It scares him. Though she is just pouring water. Thinking he is all alone. Xie wipes the knife over the juice on the board, clearing what was written there, folding the tomatoes into the pot. Jo’s hands black to the wrist, grease on the glass as she drinks. Your dad is being fucking awesome about this, by the way. Squints. What’s on your lip? Um. Xie wipes his mouth. Just tomato. Jo bends over the stove. When did you learn how to cook? He shrugs. About the same time I learned how to garden. She hits his arm. On our commune, you’re the housewife, ’kay? ’Kay. She goes back through the door. Xie takes a bite of the chili. Burns his mouth but swallows. Another bite. Another burn. He laughs with his mouth full. What the hell is the point. If you burn french fry oil you’re still putting nitrogen in the air, you are still. Driving your filthy fucking car. Leaning over the sink, the laughter drying up. He snaps an arm from the aloe plant on the sill, rubs it against his lip. Why did you laugh like that like you are losing your mind. P.’s hand on his chest. Sliding up his neck, his chin, his forehead. Seeds in the sink. Finger bones tapping his temple. Stand up, beloved. He stands. Breathes. His father’s footsteps at the back door. Xie? You okay? I’m okay I just. Burned my mouth. The beans spitting down the sides of the pot. Erik cuts the flame. Angles to look at Xie’s face, pulling away the aloe. Squints. You’re fine. Don’t eat out of the pot. Xie snorts. Yeah, right. The mist clinging to the window. Thanks for doing this, Xie says. Erik nods, scrubbing beneath his nails with a brush. I’m happy to. I just hope it works okay for you guys. Jo revving the engine in the garage, her ecstatic whoop. Xie presses the arm of the aloe back into the dirt, lip throbbing. Above the sink three heads reflected in the window, P.’s crown gleaming between Xie and his father. Erik catches his eye in the glass; he smiles. Xie smiles back.