The heavy, metallic smell of engine oil, old rubber, and copper drifted through the living room of the small apartment above Henderson’s Auto Repair. It was a stark, jarring contrast to the lavender-scented air purifiers and polished mahogany furniture of my old bedroom on Maple Drive. Here, the floorboards creaked underfoot, the radiators hissed with a rhythmic, metallic clatter, and the window looking out over 4th Street vibrated whenever a heavy delivery truck rumbled past.
Yet, as I sat on the edge of the twin mattress in the small room off the kitchen, unlacing my track shoes, I realized I hadn't felt this calm in years.
The room was sparse—a single bed, a faded oak dresser with a misaligned top drawer, and a desk that Marcus had assembled out of a reclaimed fire-escape plank and tw
