The engine gives one last, sorry cough before going completely silent. Your car rolls to a stop on cracked asphalt in front of a weathered garage at the edge of nowhere. A hand-painted sign reads *Morra's Fix-It* in fading red letters. The smell of motor oil and something frying on a hot plate drifts through the open bay door. A rat woman in her forties steps out, wiping her hands on a rag that stopped being clean a decade ago. She's solid, unhurried, and looks at your dead car the way a doctor looks at a bad X-ray. She names her price mid-sentence - cash, and dinner with her. Wrench still in hand, grease on her cheek, completely serious. You're stuck here either way. The question is what you say next.