“Rob is good people,” Sean answers without hesitation. “Never known someone with a heart that big. Him and Mandy both.”

The more I talk to the people in this little shop, the more I realize it’s a family as much as it’s a business. These people know one another. Love one another.

“I’m surprised he’s not here more often,” I muse.

Sean stops wrenching on whatever he’s got going on under that hood and leans against the bumper. “He gave us a scare a couple years back. Mandy made him promise to take it easy after the heart attack.”

My pen stills. Concern flits across Sean’s face.

“Thought we were gonna lose him.” Sean nods to the front office, where Devin is helping a customer. “Dev kept us going. Not sure what would’ve happened to the shop without him.”

I watch Devin through the glass. That explains why he takes so much on his shoulders. I nod and Sean returns to his work under the hood.

I wander to the next bay, catching the eye of a guy about my age working on a car older than both of us. He’s cute, with bright blue eyes and sandy-blond hair sticking out of his backwards baseball cap. He has a chill surfer vibe.

He greets me with a “Sup.”

“Hey. I’m Jessie.” I give him a quick wave.

“I’m Mikey. You’re the one Rob said was going to be doing some business evaluation or something?”

I nod. “Yep. That’s me.”

Mikey looks me up and down. “He didn’t say you’d be so hot.”

Ignoring his flirting, I pick up the invoice sitting on the tool bench in front of me and squint at the gibberish.

“What are you working on today?”

“Serpentine belt replacement.”

I shake my head. There is no way the jumble of swirls and loops on this paper says anything resembling that. “Are you left-handed?”

“No,” he answers. A blush creeps up his neck and he goes back to tinkering under the hood of the car.

I smile and hold up the invoice. “You sure? Might be worth giving it a shot.”

Mikey’s forced laugh echoes off the engine block. “Not you too. Devin’s always giving me shit for my handwriting. I’m a mechanic, not a calligrapher.”

“Fair enough.” I can’t help but wonder. “This might sound like a weird question, but would you mind writing something down for me?”

“Ugh—” Mikey scratches hard at the skin on his forearm.

I place my hand over his fresh trail of red marks. “Please?” I ask again, soft and sweet.

“Sure. I guess,” he relents with a sigh.

I hand him my notebook and Mikey grips the pen between his index and middle finger, guiding it with all five fingers. He stares at the blank page, his eyes blinking rapidly and a small bead of sweat appearing at his temple.

“There are eight carburetors in inventory,” I dictate. Mikey’s hand doesn’t move. He swallows hard. Slow and clear, I repeat, “There are eight carburetors in inventory.”