Jumping to a stand, I take the proffered rag and wipe the smudges of grease off my fingers. A gust of wind teases the hair curled over my forehead, spreading a chill across my sweat-slicked skin.

It’s hard to imagine it was ninety only days ago, but that’s Northeast PA for you. Good ol’ NEPA. With last weekend’s storm came a cold front, and what feels like endless rain showers that have made it impossible to do much of anything other than sit around and twiddle my thumbs.

“Rotors fucked?”

I yank the flashlight out of my mouth and blow the hair from my eyes to look at Reg. “Oh yeah. The pads should have been replaced a while ago. They’re worn to shit.”

He huffs and shuffles toward the table lining the back wall, putting more weight than usual on his left leg. “Too bad for her. She’ll likely have to wait a couple days,” he says, talking about the older lady who dropped her car off about an hour ago. “There’s no way I’m getting down there anytime soon with this bum knee.” He casts a look over his shoulder, his scruffy cheek rustling against his blue-checkered flannel. “Unless you want a go at it?”

I chuckle. “Sorry, but I’m no mechanic.”

He grunts into a nod and fusses with one of his toolboxes. “No sweat. I’ll have Shawn stop by tomorrow.” He thumps his thigh. “This weather’s a bitch on my old bones.”

I snort. “You’re not old.” And I mean it. The guy’s pushing fifty, if that. Hardly a speck of gray in his thick, black hair.

He turns and folds his meaty arms, resting them over his bulging gut. The buttons pull at their seams with the movements, revealing a white undershirt in the gaps. “My joints say otherwise.” He points a stubby, grease-stained finger at me. “Just you wait, boy.”

I roll my eyes and head over to the sink to wash my hands.

A small dirty mirror shows a streak of grease over my cheek. I scrub it away with my still wet fingers before patting it dry with the sleeves of my hoodie.

My eyes catch on a patch of discolored skin peeking out over the collar of my gray thermal. It’s starting to fade, now a rosy red with some yellow around the edges. I see the other marks in my mind’s eye. The hickey right above my nipple. The scratches on my torso and back.

Despite how drunk we were, we clearly had enough brains to not leave marks where they would be impossible to hide. Well, I can’t say for certain the same for me. I’m pretty sure I stopped giving a shit somewhere in between Waylon shoving my shirt up and when I touched his dick for the first time.