Chapter 2 - Casey
Riley's humming the theme song from some cartoon I can't identify. She goes through phases, and I've learned to just nod along when she explains the complex lore of animated characters, and I'm watching Morgan Fletcher through the window of the tow truck as I pull her Civic into the lot.
She's still sitting in the same chair, phone in her hand, but she's not looking at it. She's staring at nothing, and there's something about the expression on her face that makes me want to question her.
I know that look. I've seen it in the mirror often enough. It's the look of someone who's lost something and hasn't figured out how to stop looking for it.
I park the truck and unhook her car, rolling it into the second bay.
The Honda's seen better days. There's a dent in the rear bumper, a crack in the passenger side mirror, and the paint is faded in that way that says it's spent a lot of time in the sun.
But it's clean, or at least as clean as a car can be when you're living in it.
And she is living in it. I could tell the moment I opened the door to put it in neutral. The back seat is packed with bags, a pillow, and a blanket folded neatly in the corner. There's a cooler on the floor and a box of granola bars on the dash.
She's not just passing through. She's surviving.
I close the bay door and head back inside, where Riley has apparently decided to give Morgan a full rundown of her day.
"—and then Jacob said his dad could beat up anyone's dad, and I said my dad could probably beat up his dad because my dad lifts really heavy car parts, and then Miss Amy said we shouldn't talk about dads beating each other up, so we talked about Mr. Shellby instead."
Morgan is nodding like this is a perfectly reasonable conversation. "That sounds like a good compromise."
"That's what I said!" Riley throws her hands up. "But Jacob still thinks his dad is stronger."
"Well," Morgan says thoughtfully, "maybe they're both strong in different ways."
Riley considers this. "That's what Miss Amy said."
"Miss Amy sounds smart."
"She's okay. She doesn't let us have candy, though."
I clear my throat, and they both look up. "Car's in the bay. I'll take a look in a minute, but I need to finish up the oil change first."
Morgan stands immediately, smoothing down her shirt like she's been caught doing something wrong. "Of course. I can wait outside if it's easier."
"You're fine," I say, and I mean it. There's something about the way she talked to Riley, patient and genuine, like she actually cared about the answer, that makes me want to tell her she can stay as long as she needs.
"Riley likes the company. God knows I'm not much of a conversationalist when I'm elbow-deep in an engine. "
"Daddy says bad words when he drops tools," Riley adds.
"Riley."
"You do."
Morgan's trying not to smile. I can see it in the way her lips press together, the slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes.
"Okay, yes, sometimes I say bad words," I admit. "But we don't repeat them."
"I know," Riley says, rolling her eyes in a way that's far too advanced for a four-year-old. "Because then you'll take away TV time."
"Exactly."
I head back into the garage, leaving the door open so I can hear if Riley decides to launch into another story.
The oil change only takes another ten minutes.
I'm just finishing up when I hear Morgan laugh at something Riley said, and the sound is.
.. nice. Warm. The kind of laugh that makes you want to know what was funny.
I wipe my hands and move to her Civic, popping the hood.
It doesn't take long to confirm what I suspected. The timing belt is shredded, which means the engine likely has valve damage. I check the transmission fluid while I'm at it. It's dark and smells burnt.
This car isn't just broken. It's done.
Fuck.
I close the hood and stand there for a moment, trying to figure out how to tell her. She's clearly on a budget, probably a tight one, based on the way she looked when I mentioned repair costs. And if she's living in the car, she doesn't have a lot of options.
I could cut her a deal on the parts. Use salvage where I can. Maybe set up a payment plan that won't bury her. Or I could do what I know I'm going to do, which is fix it for cost and pretend like I'm not taking a loss.
My dad would tell me I'm a terrible businessman. He's probably right.
But I've never been able to shake the lessons he taught me about taking care of people, even when it doesn't make financial sense. *You fix what's broken,* he used to say. *Cars, people, doesn't matter. You fix what you can.*
I head back to the front, where Morgan is now looking at Riley's coloring book and offering surprisingly detailed feedback on her color choices.
"The purple really makes the butterfly stand out," she's saying.
"That's what I thought!" Riley looks vindicated. "Daddy said it should be yellow."
"Yellow's nice too, but purple is bold."
When Morgan sees me, she straightens up, and I watch the hope and fear war across her face.
I hate this part of the job.
"So," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "I've got good news and bad news."
Her face falls. "Bad news first."
"Your timing belt's shot, which likely means valve damage. And your transmission fluid is burnt, which suggests that's on its way out too."
"How much?"
I give her the honest number: what it would cost at any shop, with new parts and labor.
She goes pale. "I don't... I don't have that."
"I figured." I cross my arms, trying to look more casual than I feel. "Here's the good news. I can source used parts from a salvage yard I work with. Cut the cost down significantly. And I can set up a payment plan, whatever works for your budget."
"How significantly?"
I give her the reduced number. It's still not cheap, but it's manageable.
She's quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands. When she looks up, her eyes are shiny.
"That's... that's really kind of you. But I can't. I'm not staying in town, I don't have a way to make payments if I'm traveling, and I can't just—" She stops, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry. I need to think about this."
Riley, who's been watching this exchange with the focus of someone watching a particularly interesting TV show, speaks up. "You could stay here."
"Riley—"
"What? She could! She could get a job at Murphy’s diner. He’s always saying he needs help."
Morgan manages a small smile. "I appreciate that, but I can't just—"
"Why not?" Riley asks, with the blunt logic of a four-year-old. "Your car's here. You need money to fix it. You could work and fix it and then go traveling."
"She's got a point," I say, before I can stop myself.
Morgan looks at me, startled.
"I mean, it's not a bad idea," I continue, even though a smarter man would stay out of it.
"Blackwater Falls is small, but we've got a few places that are usually hiring.
The new diner, like Riley said. Maybe the general store.
It'd give you a way to cover the repairs without draining your savings. "
"I don't know anyone here," she says quietly.
"You know us," Riley announces. "And we're very nice."
I should tell Riley to let it go. I should let Morgan make her own decision and stay out of it.
But there's something about the way she's holding herself…
Shoulders tight, eyes a little too bright, that reminds me of the early days after Riley's mom left.
That feeling of being adrift, untethered, with no good options and too much pride to ask for help.
"Look," I start. "I'm not trying to pressure you. If you want to figure something else out, that's completely fine. But if you're interested, I can ask around. See who's hiring. You could work for a few weeks, get the car fixed, and then you're back on the road."
She's watching me like she's trying to figure out if this is a trick.
"Why would you do that?" she asks.
"Do what?"
"Help me. You don't know me."
I shrug. "You need help. I can offer it. Doesn't seem that complicated."
"People don't usually—" She stops, shaking her head. "Most people wouldn't go out of their way like this."
"Then most people are assholes."
Riley gasps. "Daddy! Bad word!"
"Sorry, kiddo." I'm not, really, but I ruffle her hair anyway. "But it's true. Sometimes people need help, and if you can give it, you should."
Morgan is still looking at me like I've spoken a foreign language, and I realize with a strange pang that maybe no one's helped her in a long time.
"Just think about it," I say. "No rush. The car's not going anywhere."
She nods slowly. "Okay. I'll... I'll think about it."
"Good." I glance at the clock on the wall, almost five. "I need to close up soon. You have a place to stay tonight?"
The hesitation before she answers tells me everything.
"I was going to find a campground or—"
And that's when Riley, because she has no sense of boundaries or appropriate offers to make to strangers, says brightly: "You can stay in our guest room!"
Fuck.
"Riley—"
"What? We have one! And nobody uses it except when Grandma and Grandpa visit, and they're not visiting right now."
Morgan's eyes go wide. "Oh, no. No, I couldn't possibly—"
"See?" I gesture at Morgan, grasping for an out. "She doesn't want to—"
"Why not?" Riley demands, looking between us like we're both being ridiculous. "We have the room. She needs a place to sleep. It's perfect."
It's not perfect. It's the opposite of perfect. It's inviting a complete stranger into my home, where my daughter sleeps, where I've built walls to keep the world at a safe distance.
But Morgan is looking at me with those hazel eyes, and she's clearly embarrassed, and she's saying, "Really, you don't need to do that. I can find a motel or—"
And that's the problem, isn't it?
If I say no, I'm the asshole who offered to help but drew the line at actual hospitality. I'm the guy who'll give her a discount on car parts but won't offer a spare bed when she clearly needs one.