Calla:
The best part about working on cars? They didn't care if your life was falling apart. An engine didn't ask why your eyes looked tired. A transmission didn't wonder why you were distracted. A stripped bolt didn't care if your heart was broken. It either fit. Or it didn't. There was something comforting about that.
By lunchtime, I'd already rebuilt the front suspension on an old Silverado, diagnosed a fuel delivery issue on a WRX, and helped Julio wrestle a transmission back into a '69 Chevelle. My arms ached. Grease covered every inch of my forearms. My white T-shirt had officially become gray. Perfect. Exactly how I liked it. The radio bounced between classic rock and country while overhead fans fought a losing battle against the Florida heat. Outside, cicadas screamed from the o
