Chapter 8 Fires in the Dark
FIRES IN THE DARK
EVAN
Freedom had a price tag, and apparently mine was minimum wage plus tips.
I walked down Main Street scanning help-wanted signs. Dad had offered to buy me a car—hell, he'd probably hand over the keys to his truck if I asked—but taking his money felt like accepting another chain in the long line of obligations that came with being a Callahan.
I needed my own money. My own job. My own way of existing in this world that didn't start and end with Alpha heir expectations.
The problem was that every shopkeeper in Hollow Pines knew exactly who I was, and most of them treated the idea of employing a Callahan like I'd suggested they adopt a live grenade.
Polite smiles, nervous laughter, and creative excuses about how they were “looking for someone with more experience” or “needed to discuss it with corporate first.”
Corporate. In a town where the biggest business was Dad's lumber mill.
By the time I reached the auto repair shop on the edge of town, my jaw ached from clenching it so hard.
Ward's Garage looked like every other small-town mechanic shop that had given up trying to impress anyone—weathered metal siding, oil stains on the concrete, and a graveyard of pickup trucks in various stages of resurrection scattered around the lot.
The bay doors were open, and I could hear voices mixed with the rhythmic clang of metal on metal echoing from inside. The air smelled like motor oil and brake fluid, with undertones of something wild that made my skin prickle with awareness.
I was scanning for anyone who looked like they wouldn't immediately kick me out when I caught fragments of conversation from the garage.
“I'm telling you, Mason, that Honda's transmission is more fried than yesterday's chicken,” a voice called out, accompanied by the sound of something heavy being dropped. “Customer's gonna cry when she sees the estimate.”
“You say that about every car that rolls in here, Cal,” came the reply, quieter and more measured. “Maybe try a little optimism for once.”
“Optimism doesn't fix blown gaskets, my friend.”
A third voice cut through their banter, gruff and commanding. “Less talking, more working. That Honda isn't going to fix itself while you two debate the philosophy of automotive repair.”
I stepped into the garage proper and found the source of the voices. Three men in various stages of grease-covered work clothes, each focused on different projects but clearly comfortable with each other's presence.
The first man I'd heard—Cal, apparently—looked to be in his late thirties, stocky build with dark hair buzzed short and a faded Metallica t-shirt that had seen better years. He was elbow-deep in an engine bay, singing off-key to music that played from a radio perched precariously on a workbench.
The second man, Mason, was taller and leaner, salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed despite the oil stains on his coveralls. He worked with quiet precision on what looked like bodywork, sanding down a dented fender with the kind of patience that spoke of years of practice.
The third man sat hunched over an engine block, weathered hands working to rebuild what looked like a carburetor.
Silver hair tied back at the nape of his neck, lines carved deep around eyes that were sharp blue-gray, like winter sky.
When he looked up at me, I felt the strangest sensation—like he was seeing more than just the nervous teenager standing in his doorway.
“You lost, son?” the older man asked, setting down his tools.
I pulled out my notebook and wrote quickly, then showed him the page.
Looking for work.
Cal straightened up from the engine he'd been wrestling with, wiping his hands on a shop rag. “Work? You old enough to work on cars, kid?”
I'm seventeen. I need a car, and I need to earn money to buy one.
Mason looked up from his sanding, studying me with curious eyes. “Most kids your age are asking their parents for cars, not trying to earn them.”
My dad think I should focus on school. But I also want to learn to be independent.
This earned a snort of laughter from Cal. “Kid's got spine. I like that.”
The older man stood up, really looking at me then, gaze traveling from my face to my hands to the way I held myself.
“Name's Gideon Ward. I own this place.” He gestured toward the other two men.
“That's Cal Harker, thinks every engine problem can be solved with enough swearing.
And Mason Clarke, who actually knows what he's doing most of the time.”
“Hey now,” Cal protested, grinning. “My swearing has fixed plenty of engines. It's a proven technique.”
“Proven to annoy the customers,” Mason said dryly, but there was affection in his voice.
I wrote in my notebook and showed it to Gideon.
Evan Callahan. I can work hard. I just need a chance.
“Callahan,” Gideon repeated, and I tensed, waiting for the usual reaction. But instead of polite dismissal, he just nodded slowly. “Heard your family's got a good reputation for honest work.”
Cal raised an eyebrow. “Isn't your dad the one who runs half the businesses in town?”
He does. But I want to earn my own way.
“Well, I'll be damned,” Cal said, exchanging a look with Mason. “A rich kid who wants to work for his money. There's something you don't see every day.”
Mason studied me with those steady eyes. “You ever done any real work?”
I shook my head honestly, then wrote:
No. But I'm not afraid of getting dirty. I need to learn.
Gideon picked up a shop rag and tossed it at me. I caught it automatically. “Problem is, we can't officially hire you. Labor laws and all that. But we might be able to work out an arrangement.”
“What kind of arrangement?” Cal asked, clearly curious about where this was going.
“Kid helps out around the shop, learns the basics, we teach him what we can about cars,” Gideon said, thinking out loud. “In exchange, he gets hands-on education and maybe we help him find a decent used car when he's saved up enough.”
Mason nodded approvingly. “Like an informal apprenticeship. I could use an extra set of hands with some of the bodywork projects.”
“And we all know that this place needs organizing,” Cal added, gesturing at the cluttered workbenches and scattered tools. “Kid could earn his keep just making sense of our filing system.”
I wrote quickly, excitement making my handwriting messier than usual.
That sounds perfect. When can I start?
Gideon's mouth twitched, might have been a smile. “Right now. Shop needs sweeping, and there's a parts delivery coming in an hour that needs sorting.”
Cal clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Evan, welcome to Ward's Garage, where dreams come to die and transmissions go to be reborn.”
“Ignore him,” Mason said, shooting Cal a look. “He's been inhaling too many paint fumes. This is actually a good place to learn.”
“Best garage in three counties,” Cal protested. “Ask anyone.”
“I did ask someone once,” Mason replied deadpan. “They laughed.”
“That was my ex-wife, and her opinion doesn't count.”
Gideon handed me a pair of work gloves. “Less talking, more working. Evan, grab that broom from the corner. Cal, stop traumatizing the new help with your life story. Mason, that fender isn't going to sand itself.”
The next few hours passed in a blur of motor oil and metal shavings, concrete floors that had absorbed decades of automotive fluids, and the kind of mindless physical labor that felt surprisingly satisfying.
When the parts truck arrived, Gideon wordlessly pointed toward the loading dock, and Cal showed me how to check the delivery against the invoice.
“Organization is key,” Cal explained as we hauled boxes of brake pads into the shop. “Everything has its place, and when you need something in a hurry, you don't want to be digging through random piles.”
Mason appeared beside us carrying a case of motor oil. “What Cal means is, his system of organized chaos only makes sense to him, and the rest of us spend half our time looking for tools he's 'organized.'”
“My system works perfectly,” Cal protested. “It's interpretive organization.”
“It's a disaster,” Mason said, but he was grinning.
I found myself enjoying their easy banter, the way they teased each other but clearly respected one another's skills. It was different from the careful politeness I got from most adults in town, more genuine and relaxed.
This is good work, I wrote when we finished sorting the last box of spark plugs.
Gideon read the words and nodded once. “You're not afraid of work. That's more than I can say for most kids your age.”
He handed me a bottle of water from the mini-fridge in his office, then pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “For today. Fair?”
I stared at the money, surprised. This wasn't officially employment, but he was paying me anyway.
More than fair. Thank you.
“Same time tomorrow if you want it,” Gideon said gruffly. “We'll see how long it takes you to realize what you've gotten yourself into.”
Cal laughed. “Don't scare him off on the first day, boss. Kid's got potential.”
“Potential to run screaming when he sees what passes for our safety standards,” Mason added.
I'll be here, I wrote, and meant it.
Walking home through the forest paths, I felt lighter than I had in months. Not just because of the money in my pocket or the promise of learning something useful. But because for a few hours, I'd been valued for what I could do, not who I was supposed to become.
For the first time in years, the future felt like something I might actually have a say in shaping.
That feeling lasted exactly until I reached the edge of Callahan property and heard my phone buzzing with a text from Nate.
Nate
Bonfire at the Old Mill tonight. You coming?