My name is Marcus. I’m thirty-six years old, and I’ve spent my entire adult life working with engines and oil.
Grease lives under my fingernails. My jeans are permanently stained. No matter how often I wash my jackets, the scent of gasoline never quite leaves. That has been my everyday uniform for almost twenty years.
I work at a small, worn-down auto repair shop near the edge of town. The sign outside flickers whenever it rains. The concrete floor is marked with stains so old no cleaner has ever erased them. The coffee machine in the corner has been broken since before my triplets were born. We always talk about replacing it, but something more urgent always takes priority.
The job keeps the lights on.
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