"Anything with an engine. Trucks don't object to motorcycle mechanics, and motorcycles don't object to truck mechanics." She wiped her hands on the rag she had borrowed and held it out to Brody to return. "But I'd want to know who signs off the work here before I start taking things apart."
Reese handed back the rag. "I do, or the lead mechanic I assign. And if you work here, you'll be paid for the work. No proving yourself for free for a week, no sleeping in the store room as somebody's favor to be collected later. We'll do proper paperwork, and we'll find you a better place to stay until you're on your feet."
Willa stared at him for a moment. "You're offering me the job?"
"I'm offering you a probationary position with the same safety requirements as everybody else. You learn our system, you tell us when you don't know something, and you don't work a machine you haven't been cleared to work. We pay you for your hours. Is that fair?"
"Yes," she said. It came out so quickly that she seemed surprised to hear herself say it.
"Then welcome to the shop, Willa Hart."
He offered his hand. She looked at it for half a second before shaking it, and her grip was firm despite the small cuts along her knuckles. Reese nodded toward the office. "After breakfast, we'll fill out your paperwork. Then Sark can show you the service schedule, although I suspect you've already figured out where he keeps it."
Across the bay, Sark made a noise of protest that turned into a laugh. Brody grinned and immediately looked down, as if he had been caught doing something foolish. Fig picked up his coffee, took a slow drink, and decided it was better not to remark on the change in Willa's face. She had not smiled exactly. She had simply stopped holding the air inside her chest as though she might need to run before she had finished breathing.
A job did not make Willa safe all at once. It made tomorrow visible, which was a different thing and, for the first few days, almost as difficult to bear. She had grown accustomed to measuring her life in bus departures, shelter vacancies, the price of a sandwich, and the weather forecast for whatever town she happened to be in. Now Reese handed her a printed schedule with her name on it, Fig showed her where to record hours, and Brody explained which customers preferred calls to texts. Each ordinary instruction required her to imagine herself still being there when it mattered.
Reese helped her arrange a room above the bakery on Bell Street through a woman he had known for years. He made the introduction but left the rental agreement for Willa to negotiate herself, standing near the door with his hands in his coat pockets and saying nothing. The room was small, with a sloping ceiling, a narrow bed, and a window overlooking the back lane where the bakery's delivery truck arrived before dawn. It was warm, clean, and within walking distance of the garage. When Willa asked whether the landlady needed a deposit immediately, Reese told her they had arranged to spread it over her first two paychecks, and he made sure the written terms reflected that before leaving her alone with the key.