2. First Impressions
First Impressions
Morgan
She wiped her hands on the shop towel and answered on the second ring.
“Livingston Auto.”
“Morgan? Hi, honey.”
The shift in her mother’s tone told Morgan everything. She set down her 10mm wrench in its exact spot and prepared for whatever community drama was about to become her problem.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’ve got someone here who needs help.”
Morgan glanced at her schedule, taped to the wall beside her workbench. The next appointment wasn’t until tomorrow morning. “Where’s ‘here’?”
“On Maple Street, right in front of the Hendersons’ place. Car just died, poor thing. Steam coming out and everything.”
Morgan grabbed a pen and her intake form. Make, model, year, symptoms. The information that actually mattered. “What kind of car?”
“Oh, I didn’t ask. But it’s Eleanor Carter—you know, the Carters’ daughter, the musician? She’s back in town visiting. Such a talented girl. Been on tour and everything.”
The name was vaguely familiar. Eleanor was a few years younger than Morgan, and had in high school been part of that group who did theater and talent shows and acted like the whole world was watching. In short, not Morgan’s type of person.
“Right,” Morgan said, because her mother was waiting.
“Great, I’m sure you two will—”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Morgan hung up before Patricia could finish whatever matchmaking sentence was forming. She’d heard variations before, whenever her mother encountered any woman within five years of Morgan’s age who seemed interesting or creative or just right for you, sweetheart.
She grabbed her keys and the portable diagnostic kit, deliberately not looking at the manila envelope someone had slipped under the office door this morning.
She knew what it said—same thing as the voicemails, the certified letters.
The property had been sold. New ownership, new plans. Sixty days to vacate the premises.
Later. She’d figure that out later.
A soft huff came from under the service desk. Rusty lifted his gray-muzzled head, watching her with the patient attention of a dog who knew routines.
“Just a tow,” Morgan told him. “Be back in twenty.”
His tail thumped once against the concrete in acknowledgment.
Morgan had found him on Highway 101 two years ago, limping along the shoulder in the rain.
A granola bar from her glove box and twenty minutes of patience, and he’d climbed into her truck like he’d been waiting for her all along.
No chip, no owner looking. The vet bill became hers, and so did he.
He settled his head back onto his paws, content. Morgan grabbed her keys and headed out, locking the door behind her. The afternoon heat hit her the moment she stepped outside—dry, heavy, the asphalt soft underfoot.
The drive took exactly eight minutes. She spotted the Honda immediately: old Civic, probably mid-2000s, steam rising from under the hood like a distress signal. The owner was visible through the windshield, dark eyes catching the bright afternoon light, phone clutched in her hand.
Morgan parked the tow truck and grabbed her toolkit, already cataloging symptoms. The woman looked up as she approached, and for a moment their eyes met through the glass.
Something flickered in Morgan’s chest she couldn’t name.
The dark hair with the pink streaks, the anxious way she held herself, a guitar case visible in the backseat.
The woman rolled it down with a smile. “You must be Morgan. I’m Nora.” She gestured at the dashboard. “And this is my very dramatic Honda, apparently.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I was just driving along—nothing unusual—and then there was this sound like... you know when a balloon deflates? That whooshing noise? And then steam, and now it won’t start. The engine just…” She made a vague gesture. “Died.”
Morgan waited for actual useful information. Timeline. Recent maintenance. Warning signs.
“I have another car, but I wanted to use this one, and I was just thinking about how I needed to get this serviced before heading back to LA, and then it’s like the universe was listening.
Which is either very convenient or very inconvenient, depending on how you look at it.
” She laughed, far too bright and too big for the situation.
“I’m choosing convenient. The universe giving me a sign to slow down, you know? ”
“Can you pop the hood?”
“Oh. Right. Yes.” Nora fumbled around the dashboard. “Sorry, I don’t usually… I mean, I know where it is, I just…” She pulled the release. Click.
The engine bay told the story immediately. Coolant everywhere, coating the engine block and pooling beneath the car. Upper radiator hose split clean through—textbook failure after too many heat cycles. Simple fix, but it would need parts and a proper cleaning.
“Coolant leak,” Morgan said, lowering the hood. “Radiator hose.”
“Is that… bad?”
“It’s fixable.” Morgan wiped her hands, though they weren’t dirty. “I’ll need to tow it to the shop. Proper estimate once I see the full extent.”
“Oh. Okay.” Nora’s face fell. “How long will that take? The repair, I mean.”
“Depends on what else I find. Few hours, maybe longer if there’s heat damage.”
“A few hours. Right.” Nora ran her hand through her hair, disrupting the pink streaks. “And I don’t suppose there’s a rental place…?”
“If you need a car, I have a spare.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
Morgan opened her toolkit and began setting up the tow straps. People who lost track of days usually lost track of other things too. Like maintenance schedules. Warning signs their cars were failing.
“Is there anything I should get out before you take it?” Nora asked.
“Anything valuable.”
Nora opened the driver’s door and leaned in, gathering items from various surfaces. A guitar case from the back seat—old, battered, wrapped in a faded towel. A coffee cup covered in stickers. A notebook spilling papers and post-its.
“God, I’m such a mess,” she muttered, emerging with an armload. “I swear I’m usually more organized. It’s just been…” She trailed off, readjusting her grip on the guitar case.
Morgan noticed the way Nora held it. Careful, protective. Not like the other items she’d grabbed carelessly.
“Your mom seems nice,” Nora continued, as if the silence was something that needed filling.
“Very welcoming. She said you’re brilliant with cars, which is obviously what I need right now.
I’m completely hopeless with anything mechanical.
Like, I can barely change a lightbulb without calling for backup.
Well, to be honest, right now I’m pretty much a mess in all areas. ”
Morgan finished the tow setup and moved to the truck controls.
“I should probably call my parents,” Nora said, more to herself. “Let them know what’s happening. They worry, which I understand, but sometimes it feels like…” She stopped, apparently realizing Morgan wasn’t responding.
The Honda’s front wheels lifted smoothly. Textbook operation.
Nora appeared at the passenger window. “Should I ride with you? Or I could walk, but I don’t know where—”
“Get in.”
Nora climbed into the passenger seat with her collection of belongings, settling them around her feet like a nest. The guitar case ended up propped awkwardly against her shoulder.
“This is really nice of you,” she said as they pulled away. “Coming out on a Friday afternoon. I know most people would rather be doing anything else.”
Morgan turned onto Main Street. “It’s my job.”
They drove through the heart of downtown—past the renovated storefronts that had replaced the old hardware store, past the medical plaza where commuters grabbed coffee before heading to the hospital complex.
Afternoon traffic was picking up: office workers heading home early, parents doing summer-camp pickups, the usual flow of a town that had grown beyond its small-town roots without quite becoming a city.
“Right. Of course. I just meant… in LA, you’d be on hold for an hour just to get a callback. Everything’s so impersonal there. It’s nice being back somewhere people still help each other.” Nora shifted the guitar case. “I’d kinda forgotten, it’s been a while since I’ve been back.”
Morgan took the turn onto Commercial Drive, passing the strip mall where a new Thai place had just opened next to the franchise gym.
Redwood Hollow wasn’t tiny—sixty thousand people meant actual traffic lights, chain stores alongside local businesses, neighborhoods that sprawled toward the highway.
But it wasn’t LA either. You could still drive across town in around twenty minutes, and run into people you knew at the grocery store.
And still have your mother call you to rescue stranded musicians on residential streets.
“I wasn’t planning on coming,” Nora said, staring out the window. “I mean, I’m from here, but it’s not really home anymore, you know?”
Morgan frowned. “How long are you visiting?”
“Oh, just a few days. Maybe a week. I’m sort of between projects, so I thought I’d see my parents.
” Nora adjusted the guitar again. “They live on Cedar Street. Do you know them? Paul and Marjorie Carter?” She didn’t wait for an answer.
“They’re great. Very supportive, even when I’m making questionable life choices.
Which has been more often than I’d like to admit lately. ”
She laughed—that too-bright sound again. Morgan’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel.
Morgan turned into the shop’s parking lot, backed the truck up to the main bay. Through the windshield, she could see Mr. Peterson walking his beagle. Normal Friday afternoon. Predictable.
“Wow, this is really nice,” Nora said, looking around. “Very… organized.”
The shop was organized. Tools in designated places, parts shelved by category, work bays arranged for maximum efficiency. Morgan had spent years perfecting the setup.
And she would lose it all in sixty days.
A soft thump came from inside the office, followed by the click of nails on concrete. Rusty emerged from under the service desk, moving with careful deliberation and sniffing the air for the new person who’d entered their space.
“That’s Rusty,” Morgan said.
The dog padded over to Nora, stopping just within reach. His tail swayed in a slow, measured greeting.
Nora set down her belongings and knelt, extending her palm. “Hey, buddy.”
Rusty leaned into her hand with a sigh, his weight settling against her knee. The tension in Nora’s shoulders visibly eased.
Rusty gave her hand one more lean, then shuffled back to his spot, circling twice before settling onto his faded blanket.
“I’ll need your information for the work order,” Morgan said, pulling out her clipboard.
“Right. Nora Carter. Well, Eleanor officially, but everyone calls me Nora.” She spelled out her phone number and gave an address—the Redwood Inn on the other side of town. “And I guess… what’s your estimate on cost? I don’t need anything fancy, just whatever gets it running.”
Morgan studied the suspended Honda. “I’ll know more once I get underneath. Could be two hundred to a thousand, depending on what else needs attention.”
“A thousand dollars.” Nora sighed. “Okay.”
“That’s worst case. Radiator replacement, coolant flush, hose replacement, labor. Most likely just the hose.”
“Most likely.”
“I can call tomorrow with a better estimate,” Morgan offered. “Once I’ve assessed the damage properly.”
“That would be great. Thank you.” The smile returned, fragile now. “Did you have a car or…?”
“Yes,” Morgan said. She nodded to an old car in the corner. “That’s what I’ve got to offer right now. Not exactly a limo. But for Redwood Inn, you could just walk. It’s like fifteen minutes from here.”
“Oh. Yeah. That sounds… nice, actually.” Nora gathered her things, guitar case bumping her hip. “Thanks again for everything. Really.”
Morgan watched her go, then began lowering the Honda into the bay. The pink streaks in Nora’s hair caught the late-afternoon sun—bright, impractical, chosen for appearance rather than function.
She’d seen the type before. People who drifted through with their stories about bigger places and more important things, using words like “universe” to explain basic cause and effect. They usually left behind unpaid bills and half-finished projects.
Still, there had been something in that moment when the smile faltered.
And the guitar case. Nora had held it, careful and protective, even while fumbling everything else.
Morgan shook her head, turning toward the Honda. Not her problem. She had a radiator hose to replace, a work order to complete, and a landlord’s voicemail she couldn’t avoid forever.
Sixty days to figure out where she’d go when the shop and apartment were no longer hers.
Everyone’s got problems, she thought, reaching for her toolbox.
Good problems could be fixed with a wrench.