If you manage to fix that engine, Ill give you my post, chuckled the boss, his laugh echoing off the concrete.
Emma Mitchell, unlike the other staff, did not smile at the jest.
She recognised the boy. Once a week he turned up with a ragged sack, begging for the technical magazines slated for the bin, asking if he could have any torn manuals, old catalogues, any paper that bore a diagram of a part or an electrical schematic.
At first the salesmen muttered behind his back.
Another ragcollector hanging about the showroom, theyd say.
But Emma never let them send him away.
Now youre mine, she whispered, her voice trembling. In a jealous flash, the husbands lover lunged, wrenching the oxygen tube from the dying wifes grasp
Two sixyearold girls begged their stepmother not to cast them out their millionaire father was due back
A rich stranger arrived unannounced, saw the babysitter with her children, and fell in love at first sight
The police arrested a veteran and were shocked to learn he was the father of a
If you had half the thirst for learning this lad possesses, the garage would have doubled in size already, Emma said, unabashed.
She watched him now, a slight figure before a hulking, halfdisassembled engine.
His eyes narrowed, his gaunt fingers feeling each component as if searching for an invisible story.
She sighed, took her water bottle, and slipped down to the workshop.
You havent had lunch, have you? she asked, leaning against a column, keeping her distance.
Daniel Reed flinched at her voice. He was so absorbed in the tangle of cylinders, hoses and sensors that hed forgotten his own stomach.
Miss Emma, he murmured, a hint of embarrassment. No, not yet. I thought Id tidy things up while theyre out eating.
She glanced at the bench. The parts, once haphazardly strewn, now lay sorted. Screws aligned by size, sealing rings laid like a necklace, larger gears resting on clean cloths.
Youve got a method, she observed, impressed. It isnt just grit; its brains too.
He offered a halfsmile.
The books say if you dont grasp the logic you just memorise, and when a new problem appears youre lost, he replied. I prefer to understand, even if it takes longer at first. But later
He stopped, unsure if hed said too much.
Emma opened her bag and pulled out two loaves wrapped in parchment.
Take these, she said. I bought them for myself, but you need them more.
Daniel hesitated.
I cant pay for them.
Pay me back when youre a manager, dear, she quipped. Eat quick before Mr. Frederick Clarke returns with that insufferable grin.
The boy needed no further urging. As he chewed, Emma watched him.
She saw not only a skinny lad in plain clothes, but also Mrs. Margaret Clarke, years earlier, entering the garage with a mop in hand and tired eyes, asking for a cleaning job.
Its only until the boy grows a bit, shed said then, her humble tone masking a hard life.
Now that same boy faced the most expensive engine in the showroom as if it were a riddle, not a verdict.
Daniel, she called as he swallowed the last bite. You know Mr. Clarkes comment was just a joke, right? He doesnt really think youll fix it.
I know, Daniel answered, wiping his hands on his trousers. But if I dont try, Ill stay outside forever. Im tired of just watching.
Emma felt a tightening in her chest.
Does your mother know youre here? she asked.
He shrugged.
She knows I come for the magazines. She doesnt know about the engine. If she did, shed frighten me out of my wits. Shed think Im blowing up the workshop.
They laughed together.
Lets try to make this work before she blows up the manager, Emma said. If you need anythingtools, manuals, coffeejust ask. I dont know engines, but I understand people who deserve a chance.
Daniel nodded.
Thank you, Miss Emma.
She rose, leaving him with a fuller stomach and a steadier resolve.
The following days became a silent marathon. In the mornings Daniel attended the local state school, his attention to lessons as keen as his gaze on engines: noting everything, asking questions no one else asked, absorbing.
His classmates dubbed him Brain not as a compliment, but it mattered little to him.
Afternoons he helped Mrs. Clarke at home: hauling water buckets, fixing a drawer, mending a chair.
You handle this as if youre petting a cat, the old lady remarked, watching him steady a table leg. Your birth father must have been a mechanic or a carpenter.
Daniel kept quiet. He remembered no father, nor a mother before Margaret. Hed been found wrapped in a blanket by the doorway on a cold evening, the rest a blur of imagination. Perhaps one day hed ask the old woman if there was more, but for now he had enough engines to dissect without unravelling his own past.
At dusk, when the sun slipped behind the low terraced houses, he walked to the garage. Mr. Clarke had given him no badge, no formal permission, but Emma had quietly told the security guards:
Let the lad in. Hes assisting with a job. If the manager objects, send him to me.
Thus each afternoon Daniel slipped into the workshop. Some mechanics snickered.
Whats the manager doing? Found the miracle part yet?
He pretended not to hear. Others gradually drew nearer.
Boy, have you seen this kind of electronic injection? one asked, curious.
Not up close. Only on the diagrams, Daniel replied, pointing at the wiring. But here someone hooked this harness to the wrong module. See the markings.
The mechanic leaned in.
Never noticed that before.
Small gestures earned Daniel a respect even the manager had never imagined.
On the third night, after mentally assembling and reassembling the engine ten times, Daniel spotted something odd. The damage wasnt merely error; there were strange scratches, repeated marks as if someone had forced the same part beyond reasonable limits.
He enlarged a photo on his battered phone.
Zoom. A different screw head, flattened, not matching the original spec.
He frowned, fetched an old manual Emma had bartered from a salesman with coffee and cornflour cake.
Turning to the schematic page, tiny text read: Screw specification X, hex head, torqueXNm for a seal without fissure. The piece on the bench was smaller, more fragile.
Someone cheapened the part, he muttered.
He knew what that meant. Hed read similar tales on forums accessed via the communal internet hub in the estate. Dealerships swapping genuine parts for cheaper knockoffs to boost profit, then blaming the mechanic when trouble arose.
He breathed deep. Accusations could wait; the engine needed fixing.
Two days before the deadline, Mr. Clarke stormed in, mood worse than usual.
Wheres the lad? he demanded, scanning the floor.
A mechanic pointed to the back. Daniel knelt, his head almost inside the engines crankcase, fiddling with the wiring.
Clarke approached, polished shoes crunching on oilspattered tiles.
So, genius? he sneered. Already a manager or still playing with Legos?
Daniel rose, wiping his forehead. He was filthy, tired, but his eyes shone.
Just a little longer, Mr. Clarke, he said respectfully. I think Ive found the main faultand a secondary one.
Clarke raised an eyebrow.
Two faults? Of course, he laughed sarcastically. Theres always a secondary problem when someone cant do their job. Let me guess: if the car fails, its that second faults blame.
No, Daniel replied, keeping his voice steady. If it fails, its on me. Ive taken on the challenge. It would help if you were here when I fire it up for the first time. And perhaps the owner as well.
Clarke paused, the edge in his voice softening.
The owner doesnt need to know anything, he cut sharply. He just wants a running vehicle. If I fail, youll be back on the rubbish again. Deal?
Daniel stared a moment, unmoved by the harsh phrasing.
Deal, he said.
Clarke turned to leave, meeting Emma at the doorway. She stood with her arms crossed, an expression that said shed heard more than she wished.
Emma, love, he began, using a nickname only he thought affectionate, you shouldnt be lingering in the workshop. Youve got paperwork up above.
Ill sort the paperwork, she retorted, unsmiling. What worries me is that engine and that boy.
Clarke waved dismissively.
If he fails, Ill call the importers tow truck, get a pricey technician, fix it, and the owner wont even know the mess.
And what did you promise him, the boy? Emma pressed.
What boy? he feigned ignorance.
She narrowed her eyes.
If you fix this engine, Ill give you my post. I was in the break room when you said it, Clarke, and I heard others heard too.
Clarke rolled his eyes.
Emma, please. It was a joke, a figure of speech.
Funny, she murmured. I dont recall you joking like that with the son of a dealer. Only with those without a respectable surname.
Clarkes colour drained a touch.
Dont mix things up.
I dont, she whispered. You are the one mixing ego with business. If this car isnt ready by Sunday, the deal with Mr. Spencer will collapse, and youll lose more than a job.
Spencers name sent a chill through Clarke; the contract with the wealthy Mr. Spencer of Spencer Motorsowner of half the citys showroomshung in the balance.
Spencer had left a simple note on the engines crate:
If you can solve the fault no one can, well sign an exclusive luxurycar contract. If not well look elsewhere.
Clarke knew his career could be buried with that engine. He had placed his best mechanic on the job as soon as the car arrived, and when the engine sputtered and died after three days of attempts, hed dismissed the man in a fury. He could not bear incompetence, especially when his own neck was on the line. Yet a fourteenyearold now held the key, and that unsettled everything he believed about hierarchy.
I understand what this contract means, Clarke said, feeling sweat on his back despite the airconditioning. But I wont hand over the dealership to a child, even if he performs a miracle.
Emma stared him down.
No one is asking you to hand it over, she said finally. But you gave your word. If you break it, its not just the Spencer deal that fallsits the respect of everyone here, including me.
Clarke opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, but said nothing. He returned to his office, sank into his chair, and stared out at the city.
Below, the boy remained bent over the engine. Emma recognised that look; shed once seen it in the mirror years ago, when she was an assistant sales clerk dreaming of management. Something long buried shifted.
Saturday dawned grey. Daniel arrived early, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness. Hed stayed up late poring over the last diagram, rehearsing each assembly step in his mind. Mrs. Clarke saw him leave with his battered satchel.
Off early, love? she asked.
Im helping someone at the garage, mum, he replied, kissing her weathered cheek. It matters.
She nodded, wary but trusting. She knew he rarely got into troubleonly into screws.
Inside, the engine awaited, assembled, pristine, silent as if mocking them.
Todays the day, manager, a mechanic joked as he passed. If this works, Ill call you Doctor.
Daniel smiled, though his stomach churned.
Emma appeared minutes later, coffee cups in hand.
Therell be an audience, she warned. Mr. Spencer called yesterday. Hell be here today.
Daniel swallowed hard.
He himself?
He himself, Emma confirmed. And if youre scared, remember: everyone feels fear. Courage is simply what we call it when we act anyway.
Soon after, Clarke entered, visibly tense, his immaculate tie loosened, the top buttons undone.
So, ready? he asked, avoiding mockery. Finished?
Yes, sir. Ive doublechecked everything, Daniel replied.
Three checks are better than two, Clarke muttered.
Clarke gestured for a staff member to roll the car forward. The sleek white sedan, elegant as a sleeping beast, rolled into the bay.
Daniel settled into the drivers seat, hand resting on the leather wheel. For a heartbeat he imagined cruising the winding lanes of the countryside, but he shook the thought away. He was there to prove himself.
Emma and Clarke stood side byside, watching from the front of the car. A small circle of mechanics and salespeople formed, the hush resembling the pause before an orchestras first chord.
Daniel turned the key. For a breathlong instant, nothing happened. Then the dashboard flickered to life. One by one, systems lit up. The engine coughed, coughed again, then settled into a deep, steady roar.
Tears prickled Daniels eyes. Clarke exhaled a breath he hadnt realised hed been holding. Emma clapped, her voice trembling with emotion.
Smooth as new, a mechanic muttered. Looks factoryfresh.
Daniel remained still, his mind still running silent checks. He glanced at the panelno warning lights, no odd noisesjust the clean hum of a welltuned machine. He shut it off, then started it again, merely to be certain. The engine obeyed, docile.
Footsteps firm and heavy entered the workshop. Mr. Spencer arrived, flanked by a sales rep and a younger aide.
Emma straightened, her posture regal. Clarke discreetly dried his hands on his trousers.
Good morning, gentlemen, Spencer said, voice steady. Wheres my costly problem?
Clarke forced a smile.
Right here, Mr. Spencer, he gestured to the sedan. I think the issue is resolved.
Spencer examined the car with a gaze that knew metal better than roses.
The engine was dead, he remarked. The importer told me to buy a new one. I said, Before you toss it, lets see if theres still skill in this town.
He placed his hand on the bonnet.
Who was bold enough to tinker with it?
Clarke opened his mouth to credit his chief mechanic, but nothing came out. All eyes turned to Daniel.
Emma stepped forward, a gentle hand on his shoulder.
He did, she said simply. Daniel.
Spencers eyes softened, curiosity replacing any scorn.
How old are you, lad? he asked.
Fourteen, Daniel replied, voice firm.
Spencer raised an eyebrow.
And you think you understand this engine better than the factory engineers? he challenged, without malice.
No, sir, Daniel answered quickly. They designed it. I only listened to what it was trying to tell me.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Spencer smiled faintly.
A fine answer, he said. Lets see if you truly speak enginetongue.
Daniel slipped back into the drivers seat, turned the key again, and the engine roared as before. Spencer walked around the vehicle, listening to the hum, glancing at the exhaust, noting the absence of warning lights.
Nothing wrong with the injection system, he observed. No error codes.
Clarkes face was a mixture of relief and bewilderment. The dealerships future teetered on the edge of this moment.
Sir, Daniel ventured, the motor had two problems. One is a design flaw that some forum users have discusseda valve that deforms with heat, causing microcracks and loss of compression. The fix is to replace it with the newer part the factory now recommends. I did that ahead of schedule.
Spencer nodded.
And the second?
Daniel hesitated, glancing at the rearview mirror where Clarke sat, his breath held.
Someone swapped an original screw for a cheaper one, Daniel explained. The thread didnt match, pressure rose, a crack spread, and the previous mechanics brute force made it worse. I replaced the nonoriginal screw with the correct spec, according to the manual. He raised his hands defensively. Im not naming anyone, just stating the facts.
Silence settled as the car rolled smoothly down the lane.
Youre telling me a cheaper part was fitted to my car? Spencer asked, voice low.
I dont know who did it, Daniel replied swiftly. Only that the head markings were wrong, and I corrected it with the proper component. Im not accusing anyone, just fixing what needed fixing.
Clarkes face flushed. He knew exactly how those subpar screws had found their way inhed approved a suppliers cheaper equivalents to boost margins, never foreseeing the fallout.
Spencer halted at a traffic light, eyes fixed on Clarke.
Did you know this, Mr. Clarke? he asked, blunt.
Clarke swallowed, caught between confession and denial.
I approved the use of the parts, he admitted, gazeClarke bowed his head, whispered an apology to the young apprentice, and promised that from that day forward the garage would be rebuilt on honesty, skill, and the belief that even the smallest hands could turn the biggest engines.
