The garage had belonged to my grandfather. Mom grew up under its cars, and by eighteen she could rebuild a carburetor blindfolded. Gus was a sixteen-year-old kid who kept hanging around, so she taught him everything. When Grandpa died, Mom moved away for work. She sold the shop to Gus for one dollar, on one condition written at the bottom: Never charge a customer for a part they don’t need.

Braden came in, saw the wrench, and lost his color. Gus drove the Buick into the bay himself while we watched. The ball joints were fine. The calipers were fine. The tie rod ends were fine. The only problem was worn front brake pads, an eighty-dollar part that explained the squeak. Gus showed me the pads, worn nearly to the metal. That was why Mom had laughed at the stop sign. Bad ball joints clunk over bumps. They don’t squeak when you brake.