Page 7 of Diesel

“Your seat isn’t assigned.”

“It is in my heart.”

Pulling out my phone, I dialed the office. Maureen answered on the third ring, her voice carrying a mix of exhausted patience that came from managing a senior transportation service.

“Speed Escapades, this is Maureen.”

“Hey, it’s Ollie. The shuttle just died. We’re on Route 12, about halfway to the senior center.”

A pause. Typing in the background. “Define died.”

“It made a noise like it was gargling nails then gave up on life. The shuttle won’t start. It won’t do anything except sit here looking sad.”

“Passengers?”

I glanced in the rearview mirror like one of the seniors might’ve evaporated since the last head count. “Five. All present, all getting restless.”

“I’ll send a tow truck. Sit tight.”

“Do I have a choice?” I should’ve called her the moment I’d heard the noises. If I had, we would’ve been in town with shops and civilization instead of being stuck on a back road with nothing but open fields on either side of us.

“Not unless you want to push a shuttle full of seniors down Route 12.”

“Tempting, but no.” As hot as it was outside, I’d drown in my own sweat after ten steps. Besides, I couldn’t have pushed the shuttle with my skinny arms even with a running start and unrealistic hope.

She hung up. I pocketed my phone and turned back to my audience. “Help’s on the way.”

“How long?” Edith asked.

“Maureen didn’t specify. Soon, hopefully,” I said, already fanning myself.

“Technology,” she muttered. “In my day, vehicles were built to last. Now everything’s computers and planned obsolescence.”

I twisted my lips to the side as the overhead sun made things hotter. “This shuttle is from 2006, Miss Edith. It predates most modern technology.”

“Exactly. Should still be running.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic, mostly because it didn’t follow any actual logic. There was nowhere to go from there. She had constructed another Edith Logic Loop.

Instead, I climbed out to pop the hood. Maybe I could spot something obvious. Probably not, since my mechanical knowledge topped out at “gas goes in the tank,” but standing around looking useful beat sitting inside while everyone debated the merits of vintage engineering.

The hood released with a metallic groan, and I stared down at the engine like it might confess its sins if I looked stern enough. Wires. Tubes. Metal bits that probably had names. Nothing obviously broken, but then again, I wouldn’t know a broken engine part if it introduced itself.

Traffic hummed past on the country road. Hot asphalt smell mixed with something burning.

Probably the shuttle’s dying breath.

Sweat trickled down my back. Late summer in all its miserable glory, and here I was playing mechanic with an audience of seniors watching through the windshield like I was about to roll up my sleeves and rebuild a transmission on Route 12.

Twenty minutes crawled by. Long enough for Walter to complain about his dentures three more times, for Greta to suggest we call her grandson to pick us up—absolutely not—and for Artie to wonder aloud if the tow truck driver would be a woman.

Odds were low, but hope springs eternal in the heart of a seventy-seven-year-old in a blazer.

Then I heard it. The rumble of a diesel engine, deep and powerful, growing louder as it approached. A tow truck rounded the bend, red and chrome catching the sunlight, Deluca’s Auto Repair painted on the side in white letters.

The truck pulled up behind us, air brakes hissing. Then the driver’s door opened, and a man climbed out.

Not just a man. A mountain wearing a leather vest.