The Boy Who Fixed Things
Brandon Sullivan had learned early that machines were easier to understand than people.
A stripped bolt needed patience.
A bad gasket needed replacing.
A carburetor needed cleaning.
An engine that refused to start was not being cruel. It was simply telling you that something was wrong.
People were different.
People could smile at you while deciding you did not belong. They could watch you walk into a store and suddenly become suspicious. They could look at your skin before they looked at your face.
Brandon had been learning that lesson since he was twelve.
By eighteen, he had become very good at hiding how much it hurt.
He lowered his eyes when he needed to.
He kept his voice polite.
He never gave anyone an excuse to say he was angry.
His grandmother called it survival.
Brandon called it Tuesday.
Their home on Beaumont Avenue was small and tired, but it was theirs.
Every morning, Maylene Sullivan sat at the kitchen table with her blood-sugar meter and a yellow notebook. She was a stubborn woman who had survived more hardships than Brandon could count, and she treated every new problem as if it had personally offended her.
That morning, the number on the meter was high.
She wrote it down.
Brandon came into the kitchen tying his work boots.
“You eat yet?” she asked.
“I will.”
“That means no.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Thinking doesn't keep ribs from touching.”
Brandon smiled and kissed the top of her head.
Then he noticed the oven door hanging crooked.
“You said you fixed this.”
“I said it was fixed enough.”
He crouched, pulled a screwdriver from his pocket, and tightened the hinge.
“There.”
Maylene watched him.
“You don't have to fix everything around here, baby.”
“Somebody's got to.”
He regretted the words immediately.
Because they were true.
The electric bill was under a peach-shaped magnet.
The rent jar sat beside the sugar canister.
And hidden beneath Maylene's medical notebook was a bill for $986.
Brandon knew the number by heart.
Before leaving, he secretly slipped a twenty-dollar bill into the rent jar.
Maylene caught him.
“Brandon.”
He froze.
“Bring that back.”
“Grandma—”
“Bring it back.”
He did.
She placed one hand against his cheek.
“I don't need you to save me,” she said softly. “I need you to become a man I'm proud of when I'm gone. That's how you pay me back.”
Brandon swallowed.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Look at me.”
He raised his eyes.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good.”
She nodded.
“Now go earn your own lunch.”
Brandon left the house with thirty-four dollars in his pocket.
He had no idea that before the week was over, his life would change forever.
Engines Don't Lie
Hartman's Auto had three bays, two working lifts, a coffee machine that should have been replaced years ago, and an owner who complained about everything.
Cole Hartman was fifty-seven, broad, bald, and permanently unimpressed.