"How long will it take you to find and fix the problem?" I asked, ignoring the tremor in my hands and the nagging urge to wipe those smirks off their faces.

"These things can't be rushed," the old man scratched the back of his head. "We're looking at three days of work."

"Three?" I was stunned. "You got some kind of waiting list or something?"

"We're always swamped with work," the old man said, offended. "We're the only mechanics around here all the way to the city."

I peered into the building—which looked more like a shipping container for valuable cargo than a proper repair shop.

"It's empty in there," I pointed out. "You don't have a single car."

"Why don’t you step inside first, smartass?" the younger guy egged me on, pushing his sunglasses up with his middle finger.

I didn’t resist and strode confidently into the container, pretending not to notice his crude gesture.

"Hanging up a sign and grabbing a wrench doesn’t make you a mechanic. Amateurs…" I muttered under my breath as I stepped inside.

The moment I entered, I was hit by a wave of cool dampness and the smell of motor oil mixed with cleaning products. I turned to the right—and couldn’t believe my eyes.

The space was big. No, it was enormous. Inside, everything was divided into sections by concrete partitions. I stepped carefully across the perfectly clean floor, staring at the assortment of vehicles like I was in a museum—ranging from the latest models to long-forgotten relics.

"Well?"

The young man fell into step beside me, popping a toothpick into his mouth with evident satisfaction.

"You fix all these yourselves?" I managed. "Where’d so many vehicles come from in the middle of nowhere? There’s not a soul for kilometers."

"More tourists than you’d think," he shrugged. "Name’s Ned, by the way. That’s my dad—Franklin. But he hates the full name, thinks it’s too pompous, so just call him Frank."

"Pleasure, Ned," I shook his hand. "Good to know."

After what I’d just seen, my trust in these guys was skyrocketing.

The others caught up, and Oscar pointed deeper into the station, toward an area we hadn’t reached yet.

"Is that… a helicopter?" Selena asked, incredulous.

"We’ll take on anything that needs restoring—except people, of course," Frank declared solemnly. "Not for free, naturally."

"About that… I don’t have cash on me. Truth is, I got the bike on credit to begin with," I admitted, shoulders slumping.

"Who needs truth?" Ned adjusted his glasses. "We’ve been around long enough to spot who’s good for it. Obviously, you’re not."

I glanced down at myself and only then noticed how filthy and disheveled I was. My clothes had taken a beating on the road and reeked—something I’d somehow missed until now.

I could’ve sworn my hair had grown out enough to fully obscure my vision.

"You got a shower here?" I asked.

"Down the hall, left, then left again," Ned pointed. "Meanwhile, we’ll discuss payment with your friends."

"I don’t want you covering for me," I told Selena and the kid. "Worst case, we leave the bike here and let Kurt come collect it himself."

"Relax," the kid met my gaze.

"Glenn, quit dawdling," the father called to the guy.

"Glenn?" I frowned. "You introduced yourself as Ned."

"Did I? Pretty sure I didn’t," he dodged, rolling the toothpick across his tongue.

"Whatever," I waved it off and headed down the hall, itching to wash away at least the last 24 hours.

"Hell, maybe the last few years while I’m at it…"

The hallway turned out to be winding and illogical. I turned left exactly twice as Ned—or Glenn, whatever his name was—had instructed, only to find myself facing a solid wall. I tried again. Another dead end.