Six months passed like a slow rain.
Adam fell into a routine. Wake at six. Walk to the garage. Open the doors. Turn on the radio. Fix cars. Close the doors. Walk home. Eat dinner with Sandra. Watch TV. Sleep.
Repeat.
The sameness should have been suffocating. Instead, it was a balm. No gunshots. No midnight calls. No threats whispered in dark parking lots. Just the hum of engines and the smell of grease.
Sandra had moved into his apartment. Not officially. Her toothbrush appeared in the bathroom. Her books on the nightstand. Her clothes in the closet. They never talked about it. They didn't need to.
“You're getting soft,” she said one morning, watching him sip coffee at the kitchen table.
“I'm getting comfortable. There's a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Comfortable means I'm not waitin
