Somewhere a mile away, tires squealed. Late-night racers. Jake grinned, tapped ash onto the concrete, and turned back to the manifold.
His brother didn’t move. He was staring at the engine — a 350 small block, half torn down, valves like black teeth. midnight auto parts smoking
Jake lit a cigarette, the orange flare catching the grease on his knuckles. Smoke curled up through the beam of his drop light, twisting slow as ghosts. Somewhere a mile away, tires squealed
The garage door groaned up into the darkness. Under the single flickering fluorescent tube, the old Trans Am sat on jack stands like a sleeping animal. Somewhere a mile away
“Hand me the 9/16,” he said, exhaling.