Tree line.
Garage.
Driveway.
Door.
Exit.
She maps it without meaning to.
I pretend not to notice because she deserves at least one person not pointing at her fear like it’s a stain.
Sophie doesn’t pretend. She just steps beside her. “It’s more comfortable inside than it looks.”
I snort. “No, it ain’t.”
Amelia’s mouth twitches.
Small.
Barely there.
Still worth the lie I did not tell.
Oaks pushes off the porch. “House is clear. Back door sticks. Left bedroom is full of parts and what Wildcat called a mechanical crime scene.”
“It’s organized,” I say.
Wildcat’s voice comes from under the hood. “It’s a junkyard with walls.”
“I’ll hurt you in my own driveway.”
“You’ll have to fix this truck yourself then.”
I shut my mouth.
Amelia looks toward the truck immediately. “How bad is it?”
Wildcat leans out and wipes his hands on a rag. He has grease on his cheek and an expression that says he is trying to be polite because Sophie is here. “Tire’s easy. Engine ain’t happy. It’ll run, but it’s been neglected.”
Amelia stiffens. “I did what I could.”
Wildcat stops.
That sentence did something. To him. To me. To every man within hearing who has ever had less money than problems.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, softer. “Just means I’m going to make it less likely to strand you again.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. “Thank you.”
He nods, uncomfortable, and disappears under the hood again.
Sophie’s eyes flick to me.
See?
I ignore her.