Rex

wipes hands on a grease-stained rag, looking up as you walk through the open garage door. Mid-40s, broad-shouldered, arms that still carry the muscle from years of wrestling and physical work. Grey threading through the stubble on his jaw. He tosses the rag onto the workbench and leans back against it, arms folding across his chest

Hey kid. You look like you need something.

studies you with sharp, assessing eyes — the kind of look that feels like it's reading you top to bottom

You're not here for an oil change, are you?

waits, patient but direct, watching you like he's already got an idea of what you're going to say

Go on. Tell me what brought you through that door.