“You should be able to make it, then, if you drive slow,” the driver says. “But you need to get yourself to a tire dealership. You got to get a real tire on that wheel. You can’t drive far on a spare. They’re not built for mileage.”

“Oh,” I say, my heart sinking.

The driver jots something down on a piece of paper, which he hands to me.

“Here’s directions to a tire dealership we do a lot of business with on Fourth,” he says. “A new tire there should run you about a hundred and fifty bucks, including the labor, if you get a decent one.”

“Thanks,” I say, already doing the mental math and starting to feel totally hopeless.

“Drive safe now,” the driver adds over his shoulder as he turns to walk back toward his truck. He pulls away with a screech of rubber against pavement.

I’m completely out of my element the moment I pull into the tire dealership. I have no idea what to do. “Hello,” I say as I approach the counter. “My tire is broken.”

The man behind the counter arches an eyebrow at me. He’s tall with sandy hair and a thick beard that reminds me of Wolverine from the X-Men.

“Your tire is broken?” he repeats dubiously, looking me up and down.

“Yes,” I say, feigning confidence. “I mean, I was driving today, and it broke.”

“It’s flat, you mean,” Wolverine says, looking amused.

“Yes, flat,” I confirm, wondering why I seem to be amusing him. “Anyhow, so I need a new tire, I guess.”

“It’s pretty standard to buy tires in pairs so that both tires on an axle match,” he says. I feel myself pale.

“Two tires?” I ask. “How much?”

“Depends on the type you need. What kind of car do you have?”

I tell him, and he walks outside, where he bends down and looks at the tires on my car. He comes back in and jots a few things down; then he enters some information into his computer.

“One tire, with labor, taxes and service, comes to $179.56.”

I stare at the figure, take a deep breath and sign in the blank he indicates.

One hundred eighty bucks—great.

He tells me it will take about an hour. As I walk slowly to the waiting area and sit down in front of the fuzzy TV, which is turned to The Jerry Springer Show, I feel a slight sense of panic set in.

The tire purchase will wipe out most of my cash. I’ll have less than fifty dollars left.

Who would have thought that a multimillionaire would be worrying about how to scrape by from one day to the next? I’m so lost in thought that I don’t even notice someone sit down across from me until he speaks.

“Hey, you’re the girl from the restaurant, aren’t you?”