Calla:
By eight in the morning, I already had grease in places grease shouldn't exist. My white T-shirt had surrendered before breakfast. Black smudges streaked across the front. My light-wash jorts weren't much better. My dark hair had escaped its messy bun hours ago, loose strands sticking to my face every time I leaned over the engine. Perfect. That meant it was a normal day. I was halfway inside the engine bay of an old Fox Body Mustang when Julio slid another wrench into my waiting hand without me asking.
"Thirteen."
"Thanks."
Quiet. Efficient. Typical Julio. He never asked unnecessary questions. Never offered opinions unless you asked. Just worked. One cigarette balanced lazily between his lips as he tightened another bolt beneath the car on the next lift. Country music drifted q
