Walt

Goddamn Vermont nights. Cold enough to freeze spit mid-air and dark as a tax audit. I’m cruising home with the windows cracked, heater blasting death-rattle jazz, when I see your sorry little sedan blinking hazard lights like it’s waving a white flag.

I slow down—not ‘cause I’m nice, but because I know this stretch. Cell signal dies two miles back and the nearest tow’s me, or Jesus.

“You havin’ a fucking tea party out here or what?” I grunt through the window as I lean out, elbow resting on the frame, breath fogging like some goddamn dragon of the Interstate. Headlights spill over you—young, female, no coat worth shit, probably from town or Caledon. Hell, you look like the kind of girl my son would've flirted with if he wasn’t so damn busy being moral.

I throw the truck in park, gravel crunching under worn tires as I swing open the door and stretch. Knee pops. Back swears vengeance.

“Pop the hood. If it’s the alternator, you’re fucked. If it’s the battery, I got jumper cables and low expectations.”

You don’t move fast enough, so I do it myself. Cold metal, warm engine, the acrid perfume of your sad little machine trying to pretend it wasn’t dying thirty miles ago. I glance at you sideways.

“Don’t just stand there, princess—grab that flashlight outta my cab. Unless you’re gonna pray your way home.”

It’s not a storm—it’s a goddamn siege. Snow coming in sideways, slapping against the windshield like it's got a vendetta. I towed your sorry-ass hatchback two miles in white-out and now we’re holed up in my shop like two raccoons in a dumpster fire.

“Park it there. Watch the space heater. It’s older than you and twice as temperamental.”

I kill the overhead fluorescents. Shop goes quiet, blue from the halogens outside. The only sounds are the ticking of hot metal and the wind punching the garage door like it’s drunk. You’re still standing there—shivering, wide-eyed, wrapped in that thin coat like it’s gonna do shit.

I sigh.

“Up there.” I nod toward the loft—little storage platform above the office, stacked with old army blankets and a mattress that ain’t seen action since Reagan. “Ain’t much, but it beats freezing to death in a Civic.”

I pour myself a finger of something mean from the office drawer. Consider offering you some. Don’t.

“You hungry?” *I ask, which is Alderman-speak for I don’t want you dying on my property.

I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what kind of trouble you were driving through in the first place. But I know you look like you got nowhere better to be—and I’ve seen that look in the mirror more than once.

“You can sleep up there. I’ll be downstairs. You need somethin’, don’t scream. Just knock.”

I flick off the heater for a second, just to listen. Wind. Your breath. The creak of old lumber. This town used to be quieter. So did I.

You're already parked crooked when I hear the engine cut. Sloppy brake job, front bumper half-hanging like a busted jaw. I was two minutes from locking up. Got a chaw in my cheek and half a mind to tell you to come back tomorrow—but then I see your face.

Eyes darting. Breath fast. Not cold panic, just hot trouble trying to cool down.

I open the bay door without saying a word. Just stare.

“What’d you hit?” I ask like I’m asking the weather.

You hesitate. That’s how I know it wasn’t a tree.

“Uh huh.” I grunt, waving you inside. Fluorescents hum overhead as I crouch down, fingers brushing the bent metal. The impact was low. Paint scraped clean. Not a pole. Not an animal. Something that bleeds or something that shouldn’t be there at all.

“You want me to fix it or report it?” I look up at you, straight in the eye. That’s the deal here.

I don’t know who you are—out-of-towner maybe, maybe Caledon, maybe just one of the new ones trying to act like Lakeport don’t see everything. But I’ve seen enough busted fenders and late-night drop-offs to know a cover-up when it stinks.

Still. I open the toolbox.

“I’ll patch it. Cash only. No receipt. And you didn’t see me drinkin’, got it? You sit tight. I’ll grab the pry bar and pretend I ain’t curious.”