Grip stared at me. "Say that again."
"Four hundred. The job took most of the day, but I want you to know what you're paying for."
"You're telling me you found what five shops missed, kept me off the highway until the machine was safe, and you're charging me four hundred dollars?"
"The number isn't supposed to change because you had a bad day."
Jack looked away. For a second, I thought he was offended. Then I realized he was hiding a smile.
Grip counted out twenty hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the bench. "Two thousand. You've earned it. Call the rest a diagnostic and emergency service premium if you need to write it down."
I looked at the cash. It was more money than I'd made in some entire weeks, but less than a fraction of what I owed. I pushed the bills back slightly.
"I can't call something a repair charge that isn't one," I said.
"Then write a legitimate invoice for the work and treat the rest as a gift," he answered. "I'm not asking you to forge a ledger. I'm telling you my life is worth more than a cheap labor rate."
We settled it with a clear receipt and an uncomfortable amount of gratitude I didn't know how to accept. The money would buy some breathing room, but even then I could feel the heavier number waiting in the office drawer. Thirty-eight thousand dollars wasn't the kind of debt a good day could erase.
Grip apparently saw the expression cross my face. "What's really wrong with this place, Caleb?"
"Nothing I can't work on."
Jack gave me a level look. "That's not what he asked."
I hesitated. Then I explained the overdue mortgage, the equipment loan, the roof, the suppliers who were no longer willing to wait. The words came slowly at first, then more easily because I had spent six months keeping them inside and there was relief in hearing them leave my mouth. When I said thirty-eight thousand dollars, the figure seemed to hang between the three of us like a fourth person.
"How long have you been carrying that?" Jack asked.
"Since Hector died. Some of it was there before. The rest has grown."
"You ever think about selling?"
"Every week."
"Why don't you?"
I looked around at the bench where I had learned to measure and the office where I had spent four hours sitting on the floor after the hospital called. "Because the tools aren't the business," I said. "Hector was. I'm still trying to find out what that leaves me."
Jack rubbed one thumb along the rim of his coffee cup. He asked if I had coffee, and I warned him the pot was terrible. He accepted the warning and requested a cup anyway. While I filled it, Grip stepped outside and made several calls.
Jack didn't ask me for a grand plan. He asked what sort of work came through the doors, whether I kept insurance, whether my invoices had grown with my costs, and which customers still trusted me enough to return. These were questions a person might ask before investing in a business, not questions a stranger usually asked after a motorcycle repair.