Page 27 of Dirty Mechanic
A pregnant stray dog, ribs showing, skitters between buildings—the same one I saw behind my parents’ burnt house.
He sighs. “She’s been running around for weeks.”
I slide out. “Hey girl… It’s okay.”
She bolts into the shadows.
“She needs help,” I whisper, heart cracking. I see her peeking from behind a wall and want to take a picture, but I realize I forgot my phone at home.
His hand settles on my lower back—meant to steady me, but it ignites me. I close my eyes, trying to slow my pulse.
“We’ll try again later.” His breath skims my ear. “Come on.”
We pass Valley’s Delights—quiet and empty except for the ghost of cinnamon sugar in the air. A “For Sale” sign blazes in the window of the vacant corner house across the lot. It was an insurance office before everything went online.
The space is small but charming. Big windows. Cute awning. Enough room for a glass counter, maybe two display tables.
My fingers curl on the seat.
He glances over. “What is it?”
“That space.” I nod. “Perfect for a little pastry shop. Warm and cozy, swimming in butter. Lots of butter.”
He doesn’t laugh—just studies me, curious.
“You ever think of doing that?” he asks. “Opening your own place?”
I bite my lip. “All the time.”
He blinks. “What about nursing?”
I hesitate. “I finished school… But after Huntz, baking felt safe. I can still help people. Just… In a different way. Doing what I love with apples, brown sugar, and cinnamon.”
He nods once, respectful, and the truck slows in front of the clinic. He parks and turns to me.
“Go see Emma. I’ll go get your things.”
I squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the ride. And for not pushing.”
He grunts, but his eyes soften before he leaves.
Inside, the clinic door chimes. Dr. Marvey looks up from his clipboard.
“Annabelle,” he says with a faint smile. “Here to apply for the nursing position?”
I freeze mid–step.
Because suddenly, I’m not sure that’s why I came.
Not sure at all.
I fire up the Mustang before dawn, the V-8 rumbling like a caged beast hungry for release. The track lies empty beneath a bruised-purple sky, barrels of morning mist curling off the asphalt. Every sunrise reminds me why this race matters: it’s not just a trophy—it’s my ticket to save the farm, to honor the will my grandparents rewrote after Sarah died, adding a new condition to force me back into life. Marriage, again, or lose the inheritance that could clear the mortgage they warned would swallow me whole.
I peel out onto the oval, tires hissing in protest. Heart locked to the tach, I push hard through turn one, breath hitching as the engine snarls into the straight. The world tilts, then steadies, and for a moment I’m weightless. I’m only man and machine, two forces in perfect rhythm.
