By mid-morning, every service bay was occupied. By lunch, I was already behind schedule. Just before noon, a man in a crisp polo and spotless loafers stormed into the office, gripping his keys like evidence.
“You didn’t fix my car,” he snapped.
I wiped my hands and kept my voice steady. “Sir, you approved repairs for the brakes. The engine light is a separate issue connected to emissions.”
“I paid you. Everything should be fixed.”
“I can only repair what you authorize. It’s all listed on the invoice.”
He grabbed his keys. “This place is a joke. I’m writing a review.”
He was gone before I could answer.
I stood there staring at the counter. It wasn’t the first accusation like that, and it wouldn’t be the last. Still, it always hurt. I took pride in my work. I didn’t cut corners. I didn’t sell repairs people didn’t need.
To some, though, I was just another mechanic in coveralls.
At closing time, exhaustion hit me hard. The sky outside had turned dull and gray. As I swept under one of the lifts, my broom struck something solid.
I bent down and pulled out a black leather wallet, worn soft at the edges from years of use.
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