His brother didn’t move. He was staring at the engine — a 350 small block, half torn down, valves like black teeth.
The garage door groaned up into the darkness. Under the single flickering fluorescent tube, the old Trans Am sat on jack stands like a sleeping animal. midnight auto parts smoking
Somewhere a mile away, tires squealed. Late-night racers. Jake grinned, tapped ash onto the concrete, and turned back to the manifold. His brother didn’t move
Jake lit a cigarette, the orange flare catching the grease on his knuckles. Smoke curled up through the beam of his drop light, twisting slow as ghosts. Under the single flickering fluorescent tube, the old
“She’ll run,” Jake said. “She just needs to remember how.”
“Hand me the 9/16,” he said, exhaling.
Another drag. The smoke hung in the cold November air, mixing with the smell of burned oil, old gas, and rust. Outside, the highway hummed. Inside, nothing moved except the haze.