Page 5

BLAZE

Perfect.

After dressing quietly, I slip out of the room and head to the bathroom to get ready. As I step back into the hallway after my shower, Shane’s bedroom door is yanked open.

"Someone better be dying," Shane growls. His hair sticks up in tufts, and his flannel shirt is buttoned wrong.

"Good morning, sunshine," I say, grinning. "Need some coffee?"

"What I need is for people not to show up at my door before the roosters." Despite his grumbling, he closes the door behind him and steps into the hallway. "What's the emergency?"

"Grace's truck." I follow him down to the kitchen. "I need parts."

Shane's eyebrows lift as he shuffles towards the coffee to get a pot going. "Grace's truck, huh? And this couldn't wait until, say, a time when normal humans are awake?"

"I want to surprise her."

"Yeah, I bet you do." Shane says, pouring us both coffee since it's ready.

"It's not like that." I accept the coffee and take a sip. "Her truck's a disaster. She can't run deliveries with it."

"Uh-huh." Shane sips his coffee, eyeing me over the rim. "And this sudden interest in automobile repair has nothing to do with the fact that Grace Hartman is the prettiest thing that you will never have a chance with?"

"I can't fix the road," I say, ignoring his comment. "I can't fix her life. But I can fix her damn truck."

Shane sets down his mug. "Now that sounds like a man with something to prove."

"You going to help me or not?"

"Fine." He grins. "But only because I want to see how this plays out."

For the next two hours, we raid Shane's collection of parts in the barn. The man is a hoarder of automotive everything--engines, transmissions, filters, belts. By seven, we've loaded his truck and driven to Grace's place behind the Merc.

Her delivery truck sits in the side lot, unlocked like every small town door. When I pop the hood open, I sigh, still the same.

"This isn't an engine," I tell Shane. "It's a time capsule from 1992."

"That's optimistic. I'd say 1985."

We get to work. Growing up, my grandfather insisted I learn basic mechanics before he'd let me drive. "No grandson of mine is going to call AAA for a flat tire," he'd say. I never thought I'd be grateful for those sweaty summer afternoons under the hood of his old Chevy.

By nine, we've replaced the fuel pump, installed a new alternator, changed the oil, and fixed the radiator leak. By ten, I've moved on to the brakes, which were more theoretical than functional.

"You know," Shane says, watching me bleed the brake lines, "for a city boy, you're not half bad at this."

I wipe sweat from my forehead with my forearm. "Don't sound so surprised. After all, I did spend my summers here in Mustang Mountain."

"Oh, I'm surprised. Thought your type paid people for this kind of thing."

"My type?"

"Rock stars, suits, the people who tend to manage you. People who don't know which end of a wrench to hold."

I tighten the last bolt. "I'm a man of hidden talents."

"Clearly." Shane glances toward the market. "Speaking of which..."

I follow his gaze to see Grace standing at the corner of the building, watching us. She's wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Seeing her makes my hands fumble with the wrench.

"I'll just go find some coffee at the Merc," Shane says, not even trying to hide his smirk as he walks away.

Grace approaches cautiously, like she's not sure if she should be angry or not.

"What are you doing to my truck?" she asks.

I close the hood. "Fixing it."

"You didn't have to do that."

"Didn't do it for you," I lie. "Did it because this town needs your wheels moving."

She circles the truck, inspecting our work. "How'd you even know what was wrong with it?"

"It's thirty years old and sounds like a blender full of nails. Everything was wrong with it."

A small smile tugs at her lips. "You don't seem like the guy I met at the crash site."

I wipe my hands on a rag, avoiding her eyes. "Maybe that guy wasn't worth keeping around."

When I look up, she's studying me with an intensity that makes me want to fidget. Her eyes are greener in the morning light.

"Want to see if it starts?" I ask, mostly to break the silence.

She nods, sliding into the driver's seat, and I watch as she turns the key. The engine catches immediately, purring like it's fresh off the assembly line.

Her face lights up, and something warm unfurls in my chest.

"Holy crap," she says, rolling down the window. "It hasn't sounded this good since, well, ever."

"Take it for a spin."

She hesitates. "Want to come?"

Ten minutes later, we're driving through town, windows down. Grace handles the truck with the ease of someone who's spent countless hours behind its wheel.

"It's like driving a completely different vehicle," she says, grinning. "The brakes actually work!"

"Novel concept, I know."

She laughs, and I find myself wanting to hear the sound again.

"Seriously, Blaze. Thank you. This helps a lot."

"It was nothing." I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude.

"It wasn't nothing." Her voice is soft but firm. "Most people talk about helping. You just did it."

We drive back to the Merc in comfortable silence. The town is coming alive, people heading to the community center setting up for the first garden and pantry swap. Tables appear along along the street in front of the center, with boxes of produce stacked alongside homemade jams and pickles.

Grace parks the truck and jumps out. "Looks like we ran out of roon inside. I need to help set up. You're welcome to--"

"I'll give you a hand," I say before she can finish.

She looks surprised but nods and points to the box stacked by the back door of the Merc. "Great. Those boxes need to go to the main table."

Soon I'm hauling crates of vegetables, setting up folding chairs, and helping organize the swap system. People eye me curiously, but no one seems particularly hostile. A few even thank me.

"Heard you fixed Grace's truck," Jensen says, appearing at my elbow as I arrange tomatoes by size. "That was thoughtful."

"Just being useful."

"Mmm-hmm." He pats my arm. "You keep telling yourself that."

Throughout the morning, Grace and I work in tandem. We develop an unexpected rhythm. While she organizes, I execute. When our hands accidentally brush as we both reach for the same box, neither of us jerks away. Progress, I suppose.

During a lull, Grace leans against a table beside me. "My brother would have loved this," she says quietly. "He always believed Mustang Mountain could be more than just a dot on the map."

"Tell me about him," I say, surprising myself with my interest.

She does. Stories about a kid who organized neighborhood cleanups, who believed in community before he knew the word for it. Who grew up to be a man who saw the good in people, even when they couldn't see it themselves.

"He sounds like someone I would have liked to know," I say when she finishes.

"He would have liked you," she says, then adds with a small smile, "Eventually."

I almost tell her then how empty my life in the city had become. How I moved through days that blurred together, surrounded by people but never connecting. How Mustang Mountain, for all its frustrations, feels more real than anything I've experienced in years.

But I don't. Some truths are still too raw to voice.

The swap is in full swing when Grace's phone rings. Her expression shifts as she listens.

"Everything okay?" I ask when she hangs up.

"Mrs. Ellison up on Ridge Road is running low on supplies. She's eighty-two and can't make it down the mountain." Grace glances at the darkening sky. "I should make a delivery run."

I follow her gaze to the gathering clouds. "Weather's turning."

"She needs her medication."

"I'll go with you."

Grace shakes her head. "You don't have to--"

"I know." I meet her eyes. "But two people make the work faster."

Twenty minutes later, we're winding up mountain roads as the sky darkens ominously. The delivery itself goes smoothly. Mrs. Ellison is delighted to see Grace and regards me with amused suspicion. We're back in the truck within fifteen minutes, groceries and medication delivered.

That's when the storm hits.

Rain slams into us like someone upended the sky. Lightning flashes, lighting up the road that's rapidly becoming a river. Grace grips the steering wheel tighter, slowing to a crawl.

"Maybe we should wait it out," Grace says, peering through the windshield.

Before I can answer, a deafening crack splits the air. Through the rain, I see a massive pine tree topple across the road ahead.

"That's not good," I mutter, as the truck stops.

Grace turns to look behind us, just as lightning illuminates the road we've traveled. Or what was a road. Now it’s a small river of water, washing away the shoulder and half of the pavement.

"We're not getting through tonight," she says, her voice remarkably calm.

I scan the area, and through the curtain of rain, I spot a run down driveway, the kind that leads to a hunting cabin. A cabin, set back from the road. Recognition flickers. I know this place. My family stayed here once, years ago, when I was a kid.

"See that?" I point toward the light. "I think it's a hunting cabin. Should be empty this time of year."

Grace squints through the rain. "Breaking and entering during a natural disaster. Why not?"

After putting the truck in reverse, she carefully navigates toward the cabin's driveway. "Looks like we've got no choice," I say, as we start up the driveway. "Hope you don't snore."