“This is stupid,” he mutters, shoving my notebook at me. “I’ve got work to do. Devin will have my ass if he sees me wasting time on some stupid…” He trails off, shame and vulnerability choking his words.

I step in closer, lowering my voice. “Have you ever been tested for dyslexia?”

“No. I’m not stupid or anything,” he snaps.

I bite the inside of my mouth to avoid cussing him out. “It has nothing to do with intelligence. It just means your brain is wired different. My brother is dyslexic. And he’s one of the smartest people I know.”

Mikey crumples forward, his chin dropping to his chest. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“How the fuck are we out of spark plugs?” an angry woman’s voice calls out across the shop.

The source of the voice is a woman in her forties who looks like Rosie the Riveter after some jail time. Her bright red lipstick matches the red bandana that’s holding back her pitch-black hair. Short bangs and an eyebrow ring frame the deep worry lines on her forehead. A tattoo that looks like the green tail of a dragon peeks out of her massive cleavage. I have to ask her where she got that push-up bra. It defies gravity!

She rushes past Mikey and me, storming straight to the office. “Devin!” she screeches the whole way there.

I give Mikey a forgiving nod and I back away. “Oh, I’ve got to see this.”

Prison Rosie throws the door open and it clangs against the wall with an echoing thud. I sneak in behind her and hug the wall. Devin slices his eyes to her, pinning her in place with a vicious silent warning.

“Wait,” he growls, a low and guttural sound. The strength in that single word has both me and Prison Rosie frozen in place.

Devin returns his attention to his customer, a lady who must be in her seventies trying to pay with a check. He is patient, his voice now a gentle soothing drawl. “Thank you for your business, ma’am. Drive safe.” Devin hands her the keys to her Ford Falcon. She waves goodbye and heads out to the car almost as old as she is.

Before the jingle of the doorbell fades, Devin’s furious gaze is back on the woman mechanic. “What?” he barks.

“We’re out of M14 spark plugs.” She huffs.

While the two are locked in a staring contest for the ages, I slip behind the counter.

“Spark plugs,” the woman repeats, throwing her arms up.

“I heard you, Shelley.”

Shelley—AKA Prison Rosie—scoffs and storms off, muttering obscenities I’ve never heard before on her return journey to her bay.

I inch into Devin’s personal space, lean against the counter and stare up at him. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t flinch, pretending I don’t exist. I resist the urge to pinch his butt just to get a reaction out of him. I hop up onto the counter, knowing it annoys him, and cross my legs.