Tom awoke to an empty bed and his whole body aching. Something felt off, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Blurry-eyed, he stared up at the white-speckled ceiling, alone. His wife, Janet, had likely left the bed sometime in the night. When he got restless she would find solitude on the couch, where her short frame fit easily. She always kept a blanket draped over the back, and the throw pillow was less of a throw than a full-blown pillow.

Tom knew he should get up and moving. His hulking frame and nimble hands were needed at his beloved garage. He knew the whine of every air tool, the smell of black used oil being absorbed by cat litter, and he longed to get back to them. Two Camaros waited for him to raise them back up on the racks. One needed a new transmission to match the souped-up engine its owner wanted. Seven hundred horsepower should be enough for a car that would be driven only on public streets. The other, a black convertible, had hit a curb while avoiding a crash. The frame would need straightening, and the control arms and shocks replaced.

They were jobs his son could handle, but Tom felt compelled to oversee every part of the work He was as dedicated to the cars and the reputation of his garage as he was to his family. He said he worked so hard to give them a good life. If asked under sodium pentothal, he would admit it was a lie. He loved the work; he would have done it for free if his family were taken care of financially. As it was, he threw in lots of extras for his clients. Again: not for the client but for the love of the work and the car.