My name is Evan.
I’m thirty-six years old, and for most of my life, I’ve been better with engines than with people.
The auto shop where I work sits at the edge of town, half-forgotten between an old gas station and a closed-down diner. The concrete floor is cracked, the air smells like oil and metal, and every tool has a story older than some of the guys working there.
It’s not the kind of place people dream about.
But it’s honest.
And right now, honest is all I’ve got.
Most days, I’m there before the sun comes up and I leave long after it disappears. By the time I get home, my hands are stained with grease, my back aches, and my head is still buzzing with the sound of engines that refused to cooperate.
But the truth is…
My real job doesn’t start until I walk through my front door.
Because I’m raising three six-year-old triplets on my own.
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