Page 2 of The Only Road Back

JACK

Heat bites at my knuckles as I delve deeper into the engine of Mrs. Abernathy’s Buick. Sweat slips past my hairline.

The problem’s obvious—a shredded timing belt—but explaining that to Mrs. Abernathy will be harder than fixing it. She’s set on her “funny noise” theory, like that’ll hold the car together.

Somewhere behind me, a country song twangs about heartbreak, the same as every other song and only half as interesting. I reach for the socket wrench, balanced on the engine block. Focus helps me pretend the day’s not going sideways already.

“Fixing it or just bonding over shared hardship?” That’s my brother, Henry.

I don’t look up. “Trying to, but the heckling is distracting.”

Henry’s boots scuff the concrete, drawing closer. “Supervising, not heckling. Different skill set.” He sets down a coffee cup. “Wilson’s truck finally coughed up its last secret. Carburetor’s a disaster.”

“You call him?”

“Yeah. Nearly fainted at the price. Lesson in passive-aggressive responsibility; I told him next time, don’t ignore the check engine light for half a year.”

I straighten, and my back cracks. Too many hours bent over cars. I swipe my hands on the rag in my pocket.

Henry props himself against the bench, arms crossed. At thirty-two, he’s just two years older, but he acts like he’s looking down from Mount Wisdom. Probably because he is, sometimes.

He eyes me. “Still good for Sullivan’s tonight? Tina’s bringing her sister.”

A warning bell goes off in my head. “Is this another setup?”

He grins. That’s all the answer I need. “She’s cute, just back from Denver. Divorced, no baggage.”

“I have plans.”

He snorts. “With what, Netflix and your ceiling fan? Jack, when’s the last time you went on an actual date?”

The phone’s ring slices through whatever reply I was about to muster. I don’t mind. I’m out of arguments, anyway.

Henry heads for the office. “Not over, by the way. And the Christmas party with Olivia Sutton doesn’t count—six months and three holidays ago.”

In Riverdale, nothing stays secret. Mom called about my last coffee date before the dishes were cleared. She does that with everything, though.

I turn back to Mrs. Abernathy’s Buick, glad for the distraction. The timing belt frays under my huffing breath, unapologetic. Sometimes, things just aren’t fixable, no matter how much you tinker. The office door slams open.

“Jack!” Henry calls. “Breakdown on Highway 14. Woman’s stranded and upset.”

I pause. “Did she call AAA?”

“Local called it in. Saw her on the way back from Kansas City. Sounds bad.”

Highway 14 isn’t where you want to be with a dead engine after four p.m.

“Want to flip for it?” Henry’s already got the coin out.

He knows I’ll take it, and so do I. I’ve never been one to leave someone hanging. Mom taught us that.

“I’ll handle it.” I grab a fresh rag and wipe my greasy hands. “Call Mrs. Abernathy. The belt’s toast.”

“She’ll have opinions.”

“Doesn’t she always?”

“I guess she does.”

He tosses me the keys to the tow truck. “Fourteen. About fifteen miles up. Blue sedan. Hazards are on.”

“Back in an hour. Don’t close up early.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Henry ducks inside, no doubt to let Tina know that I’m ditching the setup. I could feel guilty, but I never do.

When I leave the garage, the sun sprawls across the windshield, a sheet of glare. I drop the visor and drive. Riverdale unfolds outside: the diner I’ve known since my tricycle days, the hardware store where Grandpa measured life in nails, the white church pointed at the clouds.

Small-town rhythms—predictable, a pattern easy to follow. After eight years in the Marines and Afghanistan’s chaos, I’d take routine over surprise any day.

Once past the last house, wheat fields take over. The miles unwind beneath my tires, giving me too much time to think. Henry’s right—I’m out of practice. Hard to find someone when half the town’s family, the other half married, and everyone else remembers the first day you rode a bike.

But that’s all right with me. I have the shop, Henry, enough quiet to hear myself think. It works.

A shimmer ahead catches my eye: a blue sedan, hazards blinking. Thin smoke snakes up from the hood.

I swing the truck around and park behind her, careful not to crowd. Nebraska plates. Out-of-towner. Lost or just unlucky.

She’s in the driver’s seat, head slumped. Not on her phone, not moving. There’s something heavy in her posture, more than car trouble.

I put on my gloves and step out. The air is warm, promising thunder. Wheat whispers around us. An engine hums somewhere in the distance.

I approach. The sedan is newer, no noticeable dents. Smoke means coolant or busted radiator—nothing terminal, probably, but right now, it’s the end of her road.

She hasn’t noticed me yet. Her forehead presses against the steering wheel, shoulders caved in. She’s bracing for more than a repair bill.

I tap gently on the window, then step back, not crowding.

She startles, looks up—eyes wide and wild, a mix of fear and hope flickering. For a second, neither of us moves. It’s just her and me and the open road.