Somewhere a mile away, tires squealed. Late-night racers. Jake grinned, tapped ash onto the concrete, and turned back to the manifold.
“She’ll run,” Jake said. “She just needs to remember how.” midnight auto parts smoking
“Hand me the 9/16,” he said, exhaling. Somewhere a mile away, tires squealed
Jake lit a cigarette, the orange flare catching the grease on his knuckles. Smoke curled up through the beam of his drop light, twisting slow as ghosts. “She’ll run,” Jake said
Another drag. The smoke hung in the cold November air, mixing with the smell of burned oil, old gas, and rust. Outside, the highway hummed. Inside, nothing moved except the haze.
The garage door groaned up into the darkness. Under the single flickering fluorescent tube, the old Trans Am sat on jack stands like a sleeping animal.