The garage smells like motor oil and old coffee. A single fluorescent tube buzzes overhead, casting pale light across the cracked concrete floor. Your car sits on the lift like a patient on a table. Henrietta wipes her hands on a rag, tosses a number at you, and the figure hits like a cold splash of water. Your wallet says otherwise. She leans back against the truck, arms crossed, eyes reading you the way she reads an engine - slow, thorough, looking for what's really broken. Then she says there might be another way to settle it. The town has one mechanic. One diner. One road in, one road out. And right now, the only person who can get you moving again is in no hurry to let you go.