My name is Evan. I’m thirty-six, and I’ve spent most of my life working with engines instead of people.
The auto shop where I work sits on the edge of town, the kind of place with cracked concrete floors, oil stains that will never come out, and tools that have been there longer than some of the mechanics. The coffee machine stopped working years ago, but no one bothered replacing it. It’s not pretty, but it’s honest work.
Most days start before the sun is fully up and end long after it sets.
And when I leave the shop, my real job begins.
I’m raising three six-year-old triplets on my own.
Their mother walked out when they were babies. One morning she packed a bag, stood in the doorway, and said she couldn’t breathe anymore. She never explained what that meant. She just left.
