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“Did you sleep while you were with your mother?”

“No.” She glares at me, challenging, and I dial it back.

I give her a warm smile. “We’re working on healing here, avoiding triggering situations. You’ve come a long way.”

The defensiveness melts away, and I take out my assignment pad. “I want you to keep a thought log this week. Keep a record of how you think about yourself…”

“We did that in the beginning.”

“I still have it. We’ll compare next time and see how much progress you’ve made.”

Our time is up, and she stands, walking over to take the slip of white paper. “I’ll try. If I have time.”

Focus on the small wins. “And no more driving past prisons looking for hitchhikers. Brad Pitt’s not in prison.”

She exhales a huff and shrugs. “It was worth a shot. You never know when that dream might come true.”

“Not all dreams turn out the way you hope.”

My words hang in my ears after she’s gone, and I look out the window in the direction of the garage. My dream has certainly not turned out how I had hoped.

He’ll be here at least a week. I wonder if that’s enough time to find the answers I need.

Chapter 10

Gray

The beat-up old station wagon pulls into the garage and Sylvia Green steps out. “You open for business?”

Her gray hair is tucked under a cotton cap. I’m pretty sure she looks exactly the same as she did when I left here four years ago—scowling, dressed in denim overalls.

I walk over to where she’s waiting. “The garage is open for now.”

“It’s about time.” Her blue eyes bore into mine like she’s looking for answers. “I’ve been driving halfway to Charleston every time I need an oil change for the last two years.”

“You need an oil change?”

“And rotate the tires while you’re at it.”

She drove through the rolling steel door I’d opened this morning, right over the car lift. It’s just how my uncle designed the place. I walk over to the supply cabinet and open it. Sure enough, Mack has a stock of oil filters just for this old lady’s car. He was like that, remembering what people needed.

Hitting the button on the wall, the steel pads go under the axels and raise the old body to the height of my head then muscle memory takes over. I step under the car and loosen the drain plug, allowing the oil to stream down into the trap under the floor. Just like riding a bike.

She watches me the entire time with those eagle eyes. “You doing everything by yourself now?”

We both glance out at the road where the occasional car slows down, curious eyes peer into the shop, and I shrug. “Had a kid stop by this morning looking for a job.”

“Did you hire him?”

“Pretty much.” I go to the lines of brake fluid, transmission fluid, washer fluid, coolant, and oil.

I give them a test to see if they’re still functioning. Looks good. Uncle Mack left everything sealed up tight, and the garage is cool and dry. These lubricants should be ready to do their job.

“Who is he?” She looks around the space. “More importantly, where is he?”

Fluids topped off, oil filter replaced, I lift the car back up to replace the drain plug before taking out the impact wrench and quickly spinning off the lug nuts on her tires, letting the heavy wheels bounce on the concrete floor. It’s familiar work, soothing and uncomplicated. It occupies my mind, drowning out my memories, the long blonde hair, the soft lips.

It distracts me from my guilt until my hand catches my eye. It’s smeared in grease, black at the fingernails. Grease monkey.