So she returned to the oil change.
At two o'clock, Mike slid out from beneath a Silverado.
“Hey.”
Aliyah looked over.
“You were right earlier.”
“About what?”
“Tommy. The coffee.”
She shrugged.
“It doesn't matter.”
“It does.”
Mike wiped his hands.
“You're better than most people here.”
Aliyah laughed bitterly.
“That isn't saying much.”
“No. I'm serious.”
Mike looked toward Reynolds's office.
“He's afraid of you.”
Aliyah frowned.
“Why?”
“Because you're good.”
She said nothing.
Mike continued.
“You're twenty-one. You're already better at diagnostics than guys who've been doing this for twenty years. And Reynolds knows it.”
Aliyah looked down at her hands.
For the first time, she wondered if her greatest strength was also the reason she had been treated like an enemy.
Then the front door exploded open.
A man stumbled into the garage.
He was broad-shouldered, soaked from the rain, with a gray beard and a black leather vest.
A Hells Angels patch was visible on his back.
He looked terrified.
“I need help.”
Everyone stared.
The man swallowed.
“My motorcycle is dying outside.”
Reynolds walked out of his office.
“We don't work on motorcycles.”
“I'll pay.”
“We don't.”
“My daughter is in surgery at County General.”
His voice broke.
“I need to get there.”
Nobody moved.
Aliyah looked at him.
Then she looked at Reynolds.
And something inside her made the decision before her fear could stop it.
“What is the bike doing?”
The man looked at her.
“It starts. Runs for thirty seconds. Then loses power and dies.”
Aliyah nodded.
“Fuel delivery.”
Reynolds's face hardened.
“Brown.”
She ignored him.
“Bring it around.”
“Brown!”
She looked directly at him.
“You're not touching that bike.”
“Why?”
“Because he's a Hells Angel.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
Reynolds's voice became cold.
“You're fired.”
Silence.
Aliyah stared at him.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Three years.
Three years of swallowing insults.
Three years of proving herself.
Three years of trying to become good enough for a man who had never intended to respect her.
She looked at the frightened father standing near the door.
Then at Reynolds.
“I'll help him anyway.”
Reynolds stepped toward her.
“If you walk out that door, you're finished.”
Aliyah picked up her toolbox.
“Maybe.”
She looked back at him.
“But at least I'll be able to live with myself.”
And she walked outside.
The Motorcycle in the Rain
The rain had stopped, but the pavement was still wet.
The motorcycle stood beneath the gray afternoon sky.
It was a large Harley-Davidson, well maintained except for the intermittent fuel problem that had left a small dark stain beneath it.
The biker stood beside it.
“You didn't have to do that.”
Aliyah opened her toolbox.
“Yes, I did.”
“My name's Ray.”
“Aliyah.”
“Aliyah Brown?”
She smiled faintly.
“Just Aliyah is fine.”
Ray looked back at the garage.
“I got you fired.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I got myself fired.”
She crouched beside the motorcycle.
“Start it.”
Ray turned the key.
The engine roared.
Aliyah listened.
Thirty seconds later, the engine sputtered.
Then died.
She placed her hand near the fuel pump.
“Again.”
Ray restarted it.
Aliyah listened carefully.
Twenty seconds.
The fuel pump's steady hum changed.
“There.”
“What?”
“The relay.”
She opened the side panel.
“The pump isn't getting consistent power.”
Ray crouched beside her.
“Can you fix it?”
“Not permanently.”
His face fell.
“But I can bypass the relay.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes.”
She ran to her truck.
Her emergency kit contained wire, connectors, electrical tape and enough tools to make a temporary repair.
Ten minutes later, the bypass was finished.
Ray started the motorcycle.
The engine came alive.
It didn't sputter.
It didn't hesitate.
It simply ran.
Ray stared at her.
“You did it.”
“Don't celebrate yet.”
She checked the connection.
“This will get you to the hospital. Replace the relay afterward.”
Ray nodded.
“How much?”
“Two hundred.”
He pulled out his wallet.
“Five hundred.”
Aliyah shook her head.
“The repair is worth two hundred.”
Ray held out five hundred dollars.
“So is getting my daughter.”
Aliyah hesitated.
Then she accepted.
Ray looked at her.
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
“No. You don't understand.”
His voice became quieter.
“Thank you for seeing a father instead of a patch.”
Aliyah looked away.
“I hope your daughter is okay.”
“So do I.”
Ray climbed onto the motorcycle.
Then stopped.
“What's your last name?”
“Brown.”
He nodded.
“Aliyah Brown.”
He repeated it as if memorizing it.
“I'll remember that.”
Then he rode away.
Aliyah stood alone in the parking lot.
Five hundred dollars in her hand.
No job.