Chapter 4

I found my father's wrench where Dean's new tools had left no room for it. It lay in the bottom of the old wall cabinet beneath oily rags and a cracked fan belt. The handle had gone dark from years of palms, and one edge still carried the shallow nick I had made dropping it at sixteen.

I wrapped it in a rag and put it on the workbench. Then I closed every drawer of the rolling toolbox and went inside.

Theo came home before Dean and Bree returned. He pushed through the kitchen door smiling, his phone already turned sideways in his hand. He had spent the afternoon with friends, and he had photographs of a crooked basketball rim, two milkshakes, and somebody's dog wearing a cap.

"Look at this one."

I looked. The dog seemed embarrassed by everyone involved, and Theo laughed when I told him so. I had packed his lunches through ten school years and listened to every story he brought home. Lately, most of them arrived as pictures I was expected to understand.

The shop car rolled into the drive. Bree came in carrying the driving booklet, with Dean behind her jingling the keys.

"How'd it go?" Theo asked.

"Better," Bree said. "I didn't hit the curb."

Dean set the keys on the counter. "She left it standing."

Theo grinned and leaned over Bree's booklet. He found the marked page, then traced the little drawing of a three-point turn with one finger. His happiness made the room feel ordinary. That was the part my throat could not get around.

"Could you teach me?" he asked Bree.

She glanced at Dean first, then at me. "I guess. When I pass."

"You'd be good at it."

"I haven't even passed yet."

"You will. Dad says you're nearly ready."

Dean opened the refrigerator and took out the pitcher. "He can ride along sometime. See how it's done."

Theo turned to me, still smiling. "Would that be okay?"

I could have reminded him how many times he had asked me. I could have counted the weekends aloud. Instead, I looked at the eager tilt of his face and the page beneath Bree's hand.

"That's fine," I said.

Theo took his phone back from me and began showing Bree the dog in the cap. Dean poured four glasses as if the question had been settled exactly where it belonged.

After they went to bed, I carried the wrapped wrench to the garage. I raised the hood, set a work light on the fender, and slid beneath the truck. Dust pressed through my shirt, and cold from the concrete entered both knees.

Dean's sockets had polished mouths and tidy measurements. None had seated fully on the old bolt. My father's wrench settled over it without space or shine, metal finding metal the way my hand had remembered before I did.

I knelt down on the concrete beside a truck that had not started in six years, and I fitted my father's wrench onto the first bolt, and it turned.