The heat in the garage was a physical weight. My lungs felt coated in a thin layer of aerosol oil and old dust. Every time I turned around, I bumped into something—a stack of worn tires, the jagged edge of a tool chest, the ghost of Max’s presence.
I wiped a streak of grease across my forehead. My skin felt too tight.
"I need air," I choked out, dropping the socket wrench. It hit the concrete with a dull thud that echoed in the stifling silence of the shop.
I didn't go out the front. I went through the back alley, pushing through the heavy steel door.
The evening wasn't much better. The city was a humid, grey mess, smelling of rotting wood and the burnt fat from the diner’s vents. I leaned my forehead against the cool, damp brick of the bakery wall, trying to find a rhythm for my hear
