Lena
The rain is drumming a frantic rhythm against the corrugated metal roof of the garage. It’s nearly closing time, and the humidity is making the grease on my arms feel like a second, heavier skin. I’m packing my toolkit when a sputter and a violent metallic cough echo from the street.
A sleek, nondescript black cruiser rolls into the bay, trailing a cloud of acrid blue smoke. The rider looks jumpy, his eyes darting to the rain-slicked street behind him before he even kills the engine.
"You the mechanic?" he asks, his voice tight. He’s young, maybe twenty, wearing a jacket that costs more than my entire inventory.
"I’m the one with the wrench," I say, wiping my hands on a rag. "What’s the problem?"
"It just... died. I’m on a clock, lady. I need this moving ten minutes ago."
I walk
