“You can sit over there,” he said, pointing toward an old office chair near the desk. “There’s bottled water in the mini fridge if you want one.”
Grace stayed where she was.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
Daniel had already opened his toolbox. “Doing what?”
“Helping me.”
He looked up.
“You don’t know me. You could have just told me to call a tow truck.”
“I could have.”
“But you didn’t.”
Daniel studied her expression for a second, then rested both hands on the edge of the toolbox.
“Because you’re a kid alone at night with a broken car,” he said. “And because if my daughter ever ends up standing outside a closed garage scared out of her mind, I’d like to think somebody opens the door.”
Grace looked down.
“That’s it?”
“That’s enough.”
For the first time since he had seen her through the glass, she stopped looking like she expected something bad to happen next.
Daniel turned back to the engine.
The first part of the repair was simple. He removed the damaged clamp, checked the hose itself for a split, and found that it was still usable. He cleaned the connection, reseated the hose, and replaced the clamp with one from a parts drawer. Then he checked the coolant level, the belt tension, and the visible wiring near the area that had been sprayed.
Grace watched from the chair.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the garage were the soft clink of tools and the hum of the overhead heaters.
Every so often, Grace checked her phone.
No messages.
Daniel noticed but did not mention it immediately. He remembered doing the same thing after his wife Emily went into the hospital for what they had believed would be a manageable complication. He had stared at his phone in waiting rooms, hallways, parking garages, and elevators, as if looking at the dark screen often enough might force it to deliver good news.
It never had.
“Your mom still hasn’t answered?” he asked eventually.
Grace shook her head. “She works in the emergency department at St. Catherine’s. Sometimes she goes hours without checking her phone.”
“Long shifts?”
“Usually twelve hours. Sometimes more if they’re short.”
Daniel nodded.
Grace hesitated, then added, “She doesn’t actually know I drove this far.”
Daniel stopped tightening a fitting and looked over his shoulder.
“How far is far?”
“The diner near my old middle school.”
“That’s what, eight miles?”
“Almost nine.”
“Grace.”
“I know.” She dropped her face into both hands for a second. “I know. I know it was stupid. I told her I was going to get food. I just didn’t say where.”
She lowered her hands. “She’s been working six nights in a row, and there’s this chicken soup from Carver’s that she likes when she’s exhausted. I thought I’d surprise her before she got home.”
Daniel’s expression softened despite himself.
“So you drove nine miles for soup.”
Grace looked up defensively. “It’s really good soup.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
Grace stared at him and then, unexpectedly, started laughing too. It was small and shaky, interrupted by the remnants of tears, but it changed the atmosphere in the garage.
“Okay,” Daniel said. “I’ll trust you about the soup.”
“It’s in the back seat,” she said. “Probably cold now.”
“Cold soup is fixable.”
“Apparently everything is fixable to you.”
“Not everything.”
The answer came out more quietly than he intended.
Grace noticed.