By Tuesday, the whispers had a shape.
I was torquing a lug nut on a Ford F-150 when Mr. Delgado walked in. He'd been bringing his truck to Mike's for fifteen years — every oil change, every brake job, every inspection sticker. He'd taught me how to check a U-joint when I was sixteen.
He stopped in the doorway, cap in his hands, and didn't meet my eyes.
`Morning, Max,'' he said.
`Morning, Mr. Delgado. Truck ready Friday?''
He shuffled his feet. `That's the thing. I'm gonna—I'm gonna take it to Jim's out on the highway this time.''
I set down the wrench. `Did something happen to the truck?''
`No, no, truck's fine.'' He finally looked up, and I saw it — the pity. The awkwardness. The thing people get in their eyes when they've heard something about you and don't know how to pretend the
