I can diagnose a dying engine from sixty feet away.
I can’t tell you why I’m still sleeping in the parts loft of a garage with my father’s name on the sign — a garage a man who’s never held a wrench legally owns.
He’s never raised his voice to me. He doesn’t have to. He has a calculator.
Then four broken bikes roll off the highway, and their president starts turning up every single day. He fixes nothing. He sits in a folding chair. He asks me one question nobody’s ever asked, and something I welded shut nine years ago starts to give.
Gideon Marsh is offering me a way out.
Someone else is offering me my father’s building, free and clear.
All I have to do is tell him what rolls through my bays.
I’ve got twenty-four hours to decide who I am.
What would you take?
