The last wrench click was a satisfying, final sound in the quiet of the garage. I wiped my greasy hands on an even greasier rag and let out a breath I didn't know I’d been holding. “Alright,” I said, my voice a little rough from disuse. “That should do it. Your alternator was shot. Had a rebuilt one that should last you.”

She hopped down from the stool where she’d been perched, watching me work for the last hour. Her name was Chloe. I’d scrawled it at the top of the work order. Chloe. It suited her. She was all sleek lines and hidden power, like one of the classic...