I waited three days.

On the fourth evening I pulled into the empty bay five minutes after the Closed sign was flipped. The big door was still half open. Roman was under the hood of a truck, sleeves of his black T-shirt pushed up, forearms streaked with grease. He straightened when he heard my tires, wiped his hands on a rag, and looked at me through the windshield with the same calm, assessing expression he had worn the first night.

I got out. My pulse was already too fast.

“Car trouble?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

A faint, dark almost-smile touched his mouth. He walked past me, hit the button to...