Page 45 of Welded Defender
Joon and Becket disappear into bay two, wrestling with a puzzle of bolts and brake lines. Wes tries fixing the radio antenna and nearly impales himself with the screwdriver before surrendering and calling the static “rustic ambiance.” I handle the ordinary small repairs that always feel like breathing—rotations, bulbs, belts—while my attention keeps drifting back to the front.
I remind myself to trust the systems: the locks, alarms, my people.
At lunch, a steady rush hits—three walk-ins and two appointments stacking up at once. The lobby fills with shuffling boots and winter coats. Marcy’s pen never stops moving. She keeps her voice steady with a man who missed his appointment and is clearly annoyed. It takes me a full thirty seconds to realize I’m halfway to the doorway, ready to stand there like a wall. I force myself back to the Tacoma on the lift, jaw relaxing when I hear her say, calm as anything, “…and the earliest slot for the alignment is Friday. If that works, I’ll put you on the list now.”
When the crowd thins, Becket emerges with a part number scribbled on his glove and pauses at the counter. He takes in the neat stack of “Paid” slips and the way Marcy’s shoulders remain loose despite the rush.
“Good system,” he says.
“Thanks,” she grins.
The afternoon settles into near quiet. Light through the front windows turns blue and thin, the snowplow passing again like a tired shark. Every few minutes, my phone buzzes with a motion ping from the lot—mostly a bird skidding on the railing, a drifting shadow, a neighbor’s dog. The one time a sedan idles too long by the curb, Becket glances at the camera feed and names the driver before I can cross the floor. “Post Officekid. His wipers are trash.” He sets a new pair on the counter without comment, hands precise. The dread in my ribs loosens by degrees.
At one point, Marcy catches me watching.
“What?” she asks, something like humor curving the corner of her mouth.
“Just… watching you run circles around us,” I say.
Color rises in her cheeks. “Don’t say that. I’m still learning.”
“We all are.” I lean on the counter’s edge, close enough to see the faint lines on her forehead that appear when she’s trying not to smile.
We lock the bay door at five-thirty—earlier than usual while the roads settle. We close out the drawers and shut off the fluorescents in the bays. The lobby hums under weak lamps.
I walk Marcy to the stairwell and stop at the bottom so it doesn’t feel like an escort. The new deadbolt catches the streetlight when she fits her key. She glances back once. I give her the smallest nod. She disappears inside; the chime sings softly in the night.
Back in the shop, Becket slides the last of the day’s tickets into their manila homes. He hands me a slip of paper—the camera admin code in his neat block letters, taking up as little room as possible.
“Change it later,” he says.
“I will.”
He pauses like he might say something else, then just flicks a look toward the ceiling. “She’s tough.”
“I know,” I say.
Becket slips into the cold without another word, the door clicking shut behind him. The lobby dims now, only the desk lamp casting a small circle of light across the counter. I stand there a moment longer, listening to the heater’s steady tick and the faint shuffle of Marcy’s steps above me.
She’s tough.
But toughness doesn’t mean she has to face this alone.
I pocket the code slip and switch off the last light. The shadows settle around me, heavy but familiar. Tomorrow will bring what it brings—customers, phone calls, maybe more questions than I’ll have answers for. But tonight, she’s upstairs. The locks are new, the alarm hums to life, and she asked if she could text me.
That’s enough.
CHAPTER 24
Marcy
The garage hums the way it always does in the mornings—radio low, tools clinking, the faint bitter edge of coffee hanging over everything. Outside, snow piles in ridges where the plow finally carved a path, but here it’s warm. Familiar.
I’m sorting intake slips at the counter, trying to focus, when Ravi’s voice cuts through the space.
“You ever throw a punch before?”
I jerk, the paper slipping from my fingers. He’s perched on a rolling stool, one foot propped on the lowest rung, the other splayed wide for balance. His arms fold across his chest, and the left corner of his mouth hitches up, revealing the edge of a canine tooth—that same expression he wore yesterday before convincing Wes to race across the icy parking lot. Ravi hasn’t been around the garage as much. Most of his time has been spent at his parents' restaurant filling in for his very pregnant sister. But the last couple of days he’s been in the shop helping with the after storm rush.
