"What are you doing here?"
Later that afternoon, I found James rummaging through our garage, the previous items he bought from the grocery store two weeks ago, lay scattered on the floor. I watch him stand up from where he was bent down on the boxes by the back of the place, sweat dripping down his face.
"I'm trying to find some tools. This place is a junkyard," he says, only looking at me for a second before going back to searching through the stuffs again.
"For what?" I asked anxiously.
"For your pretty girl," he answers shortly, jabbing his thumb to my red truck, and I frowned.
"You gonna fix her today?"
"Yeah," he sighs, giving up with the whole searching, "And it might probably take a while, so you gonna need to ride the bus starting tomorrow while I fix her here."
"Sure," I sh
