Page 4 of Ransom

Matt mock salutes. "Yes, ma'am." The man is determined to annoy the shit out of me but he’s out of luck. I’m good.

As he disappears under the truck again, I start jotting down parts we'll need. The sooner I get the order in, the sooner the parts will get here. It's going to take a couple days since we're a few hours from the city and the trucks don't run this way every day, but it's no big deal. Mr. Johnson knows the score, and he can be plenty patient when he needs to be.

Nobody around here has piles of extra money lying around. Everyone's doing the best they can to make what they have last. So we fix cars and tractors and anything else with motors. A lot of folks have learned to fix their own shit, so when a farmer brings me something to work on, it's pretty close to fucked. But I like those cases. I’m amazing at figuring out a way to make something nearly dead work again.

I like watching those restoration shows on TV. It's fun to dream about finding just the right details to make something perfect again. But in real life, it's not about perfect. It’sabout making something scarred and broken useful again. It's function, not flash.

I guess that applies to me too. Nothing about me is flashy. I live in work boots, jeans, and t-shirts. I don’t wear makeup. The only part of me that’s flashy is my hair. For a mechanic, hair nearly to your waist is dumb. But I love it. Dad loved it.

Heloved it.

Buthedoesn’t matter anymore. Whathethinks doesn't matter.

Never again.

I spendthe morning buried in engine parts and paperwork. The clank of tools and rumble of motors fills the garage—sounds I've known since I was a kid. When I was little, I woke up to those noises. Kinda hard to miss them when you live above a garage like Dad and I did. They’d be ringing through my mind, even when the garage is cold and silent.

“Blair. Phone's ringing," Matt calls out.

How the fuck did I miss that?I wipe my hands and grab the receiver. "McKenna's Auto Repair, this is Blair."

Mrs. Simmons' voice crackles through. "Blair, dear, it's about my Oldsmobile..."

I listen patiently as she rambles about strange noises and vibrations. "Bring it in tomorrow morning, Mrs. Simmons. We'll take a look."

After hanging up, I head to the office to update our schedule. The ancient computer whirs to life, its fan whirring like it’s about to launch into space. I really should replace this thing, but every penny counts.

The bell over the door chimes. I peek out to see Mr. Granger shuffling in, his weathered hands clutching a paper bag.

"Afternoon, Mr. Granger. What brings you by?"

He grins, revealing more gums than teeth. He’s looked like that as long as I can remember. I’m honestly not sure how old he is at this point. Somewhere between eighty and a hundred would be my guess.

"Thought you kids might be hungry." He sets the bag on the counter. "Martha's homemade sandwiches."

My stomach growls in anticipation. Anything Martha makes is amazing."You didn't have to do that."

"Nonsense. You fixed my tractor last month for next to nothing. It's the least we could do."

I smile, touched by the gesture. "Well, thank you. We appreciate it."

After Mr. Granger leaves, I call Matt in for a lunch break. We sit on overturned buckets, savoring the homemade roast beef on thick sliced fresh bread. The good kind, with all the seeds, that's heavy as hell and will leave you feeling full until tomorrow. Stick to your ribs food.

"See?" I say between bites. "This is why we help folks out."

Matt rolls his eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile. "Yeah, yeah. Can't pay the electric bill with sandwiches though."

"True, but it's not just about money. It's about community."

Matt's eyes get a little dark as he stares out the open bay door. "This is a pretty good one."

He's right. It is. And despite all the shit he likes to give me, we're lucky to have him. He showed up one day looking for work, and we didn't really need the help, but Dad said there was something about him that made him think he was supposed to be here. So he got a paycheck, and Dad went fishing a little more often. It worked for all of us.

Until Dad died. Then I needed Matt more than ever.

The rest of the afternoon flies by in a blur of oil changes, tire rotations, and minor repairs.

"Blair, I'm heading out." He wipes his hands dry, the smell of the orange soap at the wash sink filling the air. "I have that thing for my sister."

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