"Can the car move twenty feet?"
"I think so."
"Good. Start it. I'll guide you into the garage."
Grace looked toward the dark building.
"You're really going to help me?"
Daniel stared at her.
"You're standing outside a garage."
"I know, but it's closed."
"Apparently not anymore."
"I told you I don't have money."
"And I told you I didn't ask."
Grace still looked unsure.
Daniel understood why.
Some people learned young that kindness always came with an invoice.
He knew something about that.
"Grace."
She looked at him.
"Get the car inside before you freeze."
That finally moved her.
She climbed behind the wheel.
Daniel raised the large garage door again.
The old motor protested the entire way.
Grace carefully started the engine.
It coughed.
Rattled.
Then settled into a rough idle.
"Easy," Daniel called.
She rolled forward slowly.
Daniel guided her until the Toyota was centered inside bay one.
"Stop."
She did.
"Engine off."
The car went quiet.
Daniel closed the garage door.
Bright fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
For Grace, the room probably looked chaotic.
Tools.
Parts.
Oil containers.
Tires stacked near the rear wall.
A faded blue hydraulic lift.
For Daniel, everything had a place.
Almost everything.
The garage was small.
Two service bays.
One cramped office.
A waiting area consisting of three mismatched chairs and a coffee machine that worked when it felt like it.
He had bought the business seven years earlier from an old mechanic named Paul Henderson.
Paul had given Daniel a fair price because Daniel had worked there for almost a decade.
Even so, buying it nearly buried him.
Then his wife became sick.
Everything after that came in pieces.
Hospital bills.
Missed work.
Insurance arguments.
Medication.
Treatments.
Hope.
Bad news.
More hope.
Then the kind of news doctors delivered slowly because there was no gentle way to say it.
Daniel pushed the memory away.
He removed his coat.
Grace remained standing beside the car.
"You can sit."
She looked toward the chairs.
"I'll be okay."
"You're shaking."
"It's cold."
"You're scared."
She looked embarrassed.
"That too."
Daniel pointed toward the office.
"There's hot chocolate somewhere near the coffee. Chloe drinks it when she's here."
"Chloe?"
"My daughter."
Grace hesitated.
"How old?"
"Twelve."
Something about that answer seemed to relax her.
Daniel rolled a tool cart toward the Toyota.
He waited several minutes for the engine to cool enough to work safely.
Grace eventually sat in the desk chair.
She held her phone with both hands.
The screen lit up.
No new messages.
Daniel noticed.
"Still nothing?"
She shook her head.
"My mom can't check her phone when she's busy."
"Emergency room?"
"Yeah."
"That can be rough."
"She's been doing nights for almost two years."
"Two jobs?"
Grace looked up.
"How'd you know?"
Daniel shrugged.
"Guess."
"Hospital nights three days a week. Then she helps at a senior care center some mornings."
Daniel looked at her.
"When does she sleep?"
"Not much."
Grace gave a weak smile.
"She says sleep is a retirement hobby."
Daniel returned his attention to the engine.
"What were you doing out tonight?"
Grace looked guilty.
"Getting dinner."
"At nine?"
"It was supposed to be earlier."
"What happened?"
"Homework took longer."
Daniel loosened the damaged clamp.
Grace continued.
"There's a diner near my old middle school. They have chicken soup my mom likes."
"That's a long drive from St. Joseph's."
"Yeah."
"Your mom know you took the car?"
Grace became extremely interested in her phone.
Daniel looked over his shoulder.