“He didn’t call,” Arthur said.
“He’s fifteen, Arthur. They don’t call.”
I had checked the stone porch earlier, making sure the brass spare key was tucked safely in the dry dirt beneath the bottom step.
If Leo did show up while we were running errands, he would need a way to get inside.
At two in the afternoon, the smell of damp autumn leaves and engine oil met me at the door of the garage workshop.
The leaves outside smelled like rot, clinging to the wet driveway in thick, dark patches.
Vance, Arthur’s cousin, stood near the drill press holding a shiny steel bracket.
“Brought the fuel pump gasket,” Vance said, his gravelly voice competing with the hum of the electric heater.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers jingling loose change.
Arthur took the metal part, his thumb tracing the machined edge before he rubbed his temples.
