Not Broken

NOT BROKEN Chapter One The Mustang's engine bay gleamed under the fluorescent shop lights, chrome catching the glare in a way that made Jake Mitchell's chest tight with something close to satisfaction. The problem was right there—had to be. He could almost see it in his mind, the way the gasket would be worn, the telltale gap that let the pressure escape. Two in the morning, and he was still on his knees on the concrete floor, his phone dead somewhere on the workbench, the rest of the world reduced to this: metal, grease, and the particular satisfaction of solving problems no one else cared about. The 1967 Mustang fastback had rolled into Mitchell's Auto Repair & Restoration three months ago on a flatbed, more rust than car, its glory days a distant memory. The owner had taken one look at the estimate and decided his midlife crisis could wait. Jake had offered to buy it outright, knowing full well he had four other restoration projects in various states of abandonment scattered around the garage. But this one. This one was special. He'd started with the bodywork, then the interior, then somehow he'd ended up pulling the entire engine. That was five weeks ago. Or six? The days had a way of blurring together when he got like this, when the work pulled him under like a riptide and the rest of the world faded to white noise. His stomach growled, a distant complaint he noted and dismissed. He'd eaten... breakfast? There'd been coffee, at least. Several cups, judging by the collection of mugs forming a half-circle around his workspace. The one closest to him had a skin of cream congealed on top. Jake made a face and pushed it aside with his elbow, his attention already back on the manifold. The wrench slipped, barking his knuckles against the block, and he swore, pulling his hand back. Blood welled up across two knuckles, bright and immediate. "Dammit. " He grabbed a shop rag from his back pocket—relatively clean, or at least it had been this morning—and wrapped it around his hand. The sting helped, actually. Sharpened his focus. There. There it was. The worn gasket practically announced itself now that he was looking at the right angle, the kind of thing that should've been obvious from the start but somehow never was until you'd ruled out everything else. He sat back on his heels, grinning at the engine like it had just told him a joke. "Gotcha, you bastard." The satisfaction lasted about thirty seconds before his brain was already three steps ahead, cataloging what he'd need—new gasket, obviously, and he'd have to check the header bolts, maybe replace the whole setup if the warping was bad enough, and while he had it apart he should really look at the— The side door to the garage crashed open. Jake jerked hard enough to crack his head against the Mustang's hood. "Jesus Christ, Meg!" His sister stood in the doorway, backlit by the parking lot's security light, her arms crossed and her expression somewhere between exasperated and resigned. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she was wearing flannel pajama pants tucked into unlaced boots. "It's two in the morning, Jake." He blinked at her, his brain stuttering as it tried to switch tracks. Two in the morning. He looked around the garage as if the time might be written on the walls, then down at his phone—wherever that was—then back at Meg. "Is it really?" "Yes." She walked over to the workbench, her boots scuffing on the concrete, and started gathering up the coffee mugs. "I called you. Six times. Tom called. Riley texted asking if you were dead because you didn't answer when they knocked off at five."