Page 51 of The Way Back Home

“You’re a natural,” Mrs. Nam says, nodding approvingly as Ryowoon brings the truck to a neat stop.

Ryowoon ducks his head, but his mouth curves, a faint flush of pride creeping up his neck.

The next week, Mrs. Nam’s delivery truck won’t start. She turns the key and nothing happens, just a sad clicking sound and the smell of something burning. She curses under her breath, smacking the dashboard.

“Damn thing,” she mutters, climbing out. “I’ll have to call someone to look at it. Lessons are off until I can get it fixed.”

Ryowoon leans over the open hood, peering inside. “What do you think it is?”

“How should I know? I’m not a mechanic.” Mrs. Nam wipes her hands on her apron, shaking her head. “Could be the battery. Could be the starter. Could be the whole damn engine for all I know.”

Ryowoon’s quiet for a second, staring at the engine quizzically. Then he says, “I could try.”

Mrs. Nam and I both look at him.

“Try what?” I ask.

“Fixing it.” He straightens, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I mean, I don’t know if I can, but I could take a look. See if I can figure it out.”

Mrs. Nam studies him for a long moment, then shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt. Worst case, I’m calling a mechanic anyway.”

Ryowoon spends the next three days elbow-deep in that truck.

He borrows tools from Mr. Han, scrounges up spare parts from the junkyard on the edge of town, sits cross-legged on the pavement with grease smeared up to his elbows and his brow furrowed in concentration. I’ve never seen him focus on anything the way he focuses on this. Not schoolwork, not fights, not even the cigarettes he swipes and sells for lunch money.

I sit nearby sometimes, pretending to study, but mostly I watch him. The way his hands move over the engine, testing wires, unscrewing bolts, pulling pieces apart and laying them out in neat rows like he’s conducting surgery. He talks to himself under his breath, muttering about starters and alternators and battery terminals, half of it going over my head.

“Where’d you even learn this?” I ask one afternoon, looking up from my textbook.

He doesn’t glance at me as he keeps working. “I didn’t. I’m just figuring it out.”

“You’re just figuring it out,” I repeat, skeptical.

“Yeah.” He sits back on his heels, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s not that different from anything else. You look at what’s broken, you figure out why it’s broken, you fix it.”

I stare at him. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

He grins, looking at me over his shoulder. “Just focus on your textbooks, Einstein.”

I flip him off, and he laughs, turning back to the engine.

On the third day he succeeds in getting the truck to start.

Mrs. Nam nearly drops her cane when Ryowoon turns the key and the engine rumbles to life, steady and clean. She stares at him like he just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

“I’ll be damned.”

Ryowoon climbs out of the driver’s seat, looking sheepish but pleased. “Yeah. Battery terminals were corroded, and the starter was shot. Swapped it out with one from the junkyard and cleaned everything up.”

Mrs. Nam shakes her head slowly, then reaches out and ruffles his hair. “You’ve got a gift, boy.”

Ryowoon ducks away from her hand, grinning. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“It’s a big enough deal.” She pats his shoulder, her voice softer than usual. “You did good.”

Ryowoon stands a little taller, his shoulders straighten just slightly, and the corner of my mouth curves just as slightly.

Word spreads fast.