Chapter 2 - The Counting of the Bills
Greg walked over, unlatched the battered hood of the Ford, and peered down into the cramped engine compartment with a flashlight. He shined the beam around the smoking assembly, poked at the shredded remains of the rubber belt with a metal pry bar, and let out a heavy, exaggerated sigh.
"Well, your water pump is locked solid, and your alternator bracket is warped from the heat," Greg announced, turning back with a smirk that looked entirely too practiced. "Parts, labor, coolant flush, and after-hours emergency surcharge... you're looking at four hundred and fifty dollars, cash or card. Up front."
The old man went completely still.
He stared at Greg, his lips parting slightly, the color draining from his weathered cheeks. He reached into the inner pocket of his soaked canvas jacket, pulling out a worn, frayed leather wallet that looked like it had survived a war.
He flipped it open.
Inside sat a single crumpled twenty-dollar bill, a ten, and a few scattered ones.
The old man pulled the bills out, laid them flat on his palm, and began counting them. Once. Twice. Three times. His calloused, trembling fingers pushed the bills around, desperately searching for a hidden twenty tucked behind the plastic ID window, but there was nothing there.
Total funds: thirty-four dollars.
He was short by more than four hundred dollars.
"I... I thought I had my contractor check cleared from Friday," the old man muttered, his voice cracking, the profound humiliation of a proud working man washing over his features. He wouldn't look Greg in the eye. "Look, son... can I leave my truck here as collateral? I'll come back on Monday with the rest, I swear on my mother's grave. I just... I need this truck to get to the construction site across the county by six tomorrow morning. It’s my livelihood."
Greg let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Collateral? What is this piece of junk worth, fifty bucks in scrap metal? I'm running a business, not a storage yard. If you can't pay, you can't stay. Push it out to the shoulder on the highway and call a tow truck."
Greg turned on his heel, walking back toward the office door without a backward glance. "Lock up when you're done sweeping, Jake," he tossed over his shoulder.
The old man stood alone beside the steaming truck in the middle of the vast, cold workshop. He looked down at the thirty-four dollars in his palm, his shoulders shaking slightly under the weight of an insurmountable defeat.
Jake watched from twenty feet away, leaning against his broom handle.
May you like
He knew that look. He had seen his mother make that exact same calculation at the grocery store checkout counter when the utility bills spiked in January.
Without thinking, Jake dropped his broom. It clattered loudly against the concrete floor.
