Dez lifted the hood and checked his work. He had postponed the final adjustment for so long that finishing it felt strangely ceremonial, but he forced himself to treat it like any other repair. He inspected the connections, examined the fluid levels, and turned the wrench with steady hands. The work occupied him completely for nearly an hour. There were no reporters, no officers, no governor's aides, and no phones to answer. Just the old engine, the man who had promised to bring it back, and the soft sound of tools being returned to their places.
He lowered the hood and walked around the Charger, checking the tires. Then he opened the driver's door and sat in the worn leather seat. For a moment he did nothing. The familiar smell of upholstery and metal brought him back to afternoons when Uncle Raymond had let him hold the flashlight while explaining why an engine sometimes needed patience more than power. Dez placed the key in the ignition and listened to the silence before turning it.
The engine caught, faltered once, then settled into a deep, even rumble. Dez felt the vibration through the steering wheel and laughed before he could stop himself. It was not the loud laugh of someone celebrating a defeat. It was the startled laugh of a man discovering that a small, long-postponed happiness had finally arrived. He checked the gauges, let the engine settle, and rested a hand on the worn leather wheel. The machine sounded alive in the way Raymond had always promised it would.
Outside, Tyler was walking down the street with a backpack over one shoulder. He heard the engine and stopped beside the driveway, grinning. Dez lowered the window. "Sounds good," Tyler said.
"You going to take it out?" Dez glanced toward the open road. "Just around town," he replied. "No hurry." Tyler stepped back and watched as the Charger eased down the driveway, its tires rolling over the same gravel where Harlan's cruiser had stopped.
At the corner, Dez paused for traffic. A patrol vehicle passed through the intersection in the opposite direction. His body tightened before he could reason with himself, the response arriving from someplace older than thought. He gripped the wheel and took a slow breath. The cruiser continued without slowing. Dez let his hands relax, accepted that healing would not always be linear, and waited for the road to clear.