5. Lena
LENA
My morning routine fell apart when I turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened.
The engine didn’t turn, no dashboard lights, just a hollow click that echoed my disbelief.
I tried again, twisted the key with more force as if determination alone would wake the dead battery.
The third attempt earned me nothing but silence and the certainty that I wouldn’t be driving to the upper bend site today.
Of all the variables I couldn't control in Cedar Hills, my own transportation wasn’t supposed to be one of them.
I rested my forehead against the steering wheel, calculating my options. The town had no taxi service that I’d noticed, no ride-sharing apps reached this far, and the nearest car rental was thirty miles away in the next county.
My meeting with the environmental assessment team was in ninety minutes, and the site was five miles outside of town, unwalkable in the timeframe and the heels I was wearing.
Which left one option, inconveniently located directly below my apartment.
I gathered my materials, locked the car, a pointless security measure for a vehicle that wouldn’t even power its own windows, and descended the metal staircase.
The morning air smelled of cut grass and exhaust from the logging truck that had just rumbled past. Through the open bay door of the garage, I could see Ethan bent over the engine of a sleek black SUV, his back to me, his hands moving with practiced confidence among belts and hoses.
The concrete floor amplified my footsteps, announcing my presence before I could speak. Ethan glanced over his shoulder, his expression shifting from concentration to curiosity as he registered my formal attire and the portfolio clutched against my chest.
“Morning,” he said, straightening and wiping his hands on a red shop rag. “You look… different, I’m assuming you’ve got more than just a site visit planned today.”
“My car won’t start,” I said, the words clipped with frustration. “I have a meeting with the environmental team at the upper bend site in eighty seven minutes.”
He nodded, absorbing this information without surprise. I braced for some comment about German engineering or city cars not built for country living, but they didn't come.
“Eighty seven minutes, huh? That’s specific,” his deep chuckle echoed through the bay. “Let me take a look,” he said, dropping the rag onto his workbench. “Keys?”
I handed them over, following him outside to where my car sat uselessly in its designated space.
He slid behind the wheel, attempted to start it once, then popped the hood with the lever beneath the dash. I stood awkwardly beside him as he leaned over the engine, checking connections with the practiced efficiency of someone who‘d done this thousands of times.
“Battery’s dead,” he confirmed after less than a minute.
“The terminal's corroded too. Not surprising with our humidity.” He pointed to a powdery blue, white substance around one of the connections. “I can clean it and jump it, but you’ll need a new battery soon. This one’s at least four years old, judging by the date stamp. ”
“Wonderful. Can you fix it now?” I asked, glancing at my watch.
He looked at the SUV in his bay, then back to me.
“I’ve got the Prescott family’s car on the lift for an oil change and brake check.
They need it back by nine for a doctor’s appointment in Riverton.
” He hesitated, then offered, “I can drive you to your meeting after I finish their car. Should take about twenty minutes.”
I stiffened. The thought of inconveniencing him and stepping off my schedule bothered me. For some reason, so did being stuck in the car with him.
“I don’t want to impose on your workday,” I said, professional reflex taking over.
Even as I said it, I knew I didn’t have another option, and I hated that.
“It’s not an imposition. Call it part of my liaison duties, call it damage control,” he replied with a slight shrug. “Making sure you can actually do your job while you’re here.”
I nodded, accepting the logic. “I’ll reimburse you for your time, of course.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, shaking his head as he turned back toward the garage. “There’s coffee in the break room if you want to wait inside.”
Thirty minutes later, we were in his truck heading toward the upper bend. It was an older model Ford, meticulously maintained but showing its age in subtle ways. A worn spot on the steering wheel, the faded edges of dashboard buttons, a small crack in the left side mirror.
Unlike my car’s clean minimalism, his truck contained evidence of a life fully lived: a battered thermos in the cup holder, a small notebook wedged beside the seat, a flannel shirt thrown behind the bench seat.
The radio played quietly, something acoustic and thoughtful that seemed at odds with my initial impression of him.
The entire cab smelled like him too. Clean oil, and a musk that was becoming more and more familiar to me. The fact that I recognized it now was… irritating. Unnecessary. A distraction I didn’t have time for.
I used the drive to continue my work, making notes about traffic patterns as we passed through town. “The school buses run at 7:45 and 8:20,” I observed, watching a yellow bus navigate a tight turn ahead of us.
“Elementary at 7:45, middle and high school at 8:20,” Ethan clarified, slowing to let the bus complete its maneuver. “They stagger them to reduce congestion. During winter, they run ten minutes earlier to account for slower speeds.”
I noted this detail, considering how it fit into the broader traffic management picture.
“And the delivery trucks,” Ethan added. “Bakery gets supplies at 5:30 AM three days a week. If we close the lower section during those hours, they’ll have to reroute through residential streets that aren’t built for heavy vehicles.”
I nodded, updating my notes, because of course that information wasn’t in them. I swallowed the mild annoyance of needing him so much. “What about mail delivery? The postal route timing isn’t in any of the official records.”
“11:30 to 2:15, depending on volume,” he said without hesitation. “Paul, the mail carrier, hits the business district first, then works his way out to residential areas. Been doing it that way for fourteen years.”
God, his voice…
The thought came unprompted, and I pushed it out of my mind as quickly as it came.
As we approached the problematic bend, Ethan slowed the truck and pulled onto the narrow shoulder.
“Watch the drainage here,” he said, pointing to where water had carved subtle channels alongside the pavement.
“Spring runoff created these rills in April. By August, they’ll undermine this whole section if we don’t address it. ”
Ethan offered to wait for me while I attended the twenty minute meeting with the environmental team at the upper bend site. In fact he insisted. He said he didn’t want me to get stranded. Plus he had more to show me.
As much as I hated admitting it, it was helpful having a local guide.
After the meeting, we spent the next forty minutes walking the site, my tablet in hand as I documented specific issues.
Ethan showed me patterns I would have missed, how the shade from particular trees created icy patches that persisted hours after the sun rose, how certain sections of guardrail had been repeatedly damaged in the same spots, revealing patterns in driver behavior.
“If we move the closure schedule to afternoon instead of morning,” I suggested, studying the traffic flow data on my tablet, “we’d avoid both bus routes and early deliveries.”
“But you’d hit the 3:15 school release,” Ethan countered. “Parents use this road to pick up kids who live outside walking distance.”
“I cannot make everyone happy here, Ethan. You’ve got to realize that.”
“There’s another way around things, there always is, if you care enough to find it.”
I stared up at him for a moment, wondering if there was any part of him that actually heard what I was saying.
“Well, do you?” he asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Do I what?”
“Do you care enough to find it?”
I rolled my eyes, revising mental calculations to see if there was a way to bridge the gap. “What about 10 AM to 2 PM? That window avoids both school rush periods.”
He nodded slowly, considering. “That could work. Businesses are open, but it‘s between the morning rush and lunch crowd. Though Gary at the feed store gets his Tuesday deliveries at noon.”
I groaned. There was absolutely no way to make everyone happy.
“We should check the overlook next,” I said as we climbed back into the truck. “I need to document how the community uses the space throughout the day, not just during our scheduled visits.”
Ethan turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. “Morning coffee crowd should be there by now.”
“Coffee crowd?” I asked, surprised.
“You’ll see,” he said, a hint of something like pride in his voice as he pulled back onto the road.
I watched his profile as he drove, noting how his expression softened when he looked toward the overlook path. This project had become more complex than I initially thought, and not because of the engineering challenges.
A part of me resented the fact that no one here seemed to understand that it was their safety I was trying to ensure.
The overlook greeted us with unexpected activity.
Three older men clustered around a thermos on Ethan’s father’s bench, ceramic mugs cradled in weathered hands.
A young woman in running gear stretched against the guardrail, breath clouding in the morning air, while a man with a professional camera adjusted his tripod to capture the valley view.
This wasn’t the empty scenic viewpoint I documented in my initial assessment.
It was a living space, breathing with community rhythms.
“Told you,” Ethan said quietly beside me. “Morning coffee crowd.”