Page 55 of Sparrow

I owe them both.

And what better way to repay them for their kindness than to make the garage work better?

“What if it was my idea rather than yours?” I ask, tapping my chin.

“I don’t think he’d tell you no about anything,” Rookie responds, and I hear the truth of it in his voice.

The reverence for Mars himself, and the surety about my position in the household.

I think he might be wrong–I’m not nearly as important as he thinks–but I’m willing to find out.

“Will you help?” I ask.

“Obviously.”

I can’t help the grin that comes to my face. “Perfect. Then here’s what we’re going to do.”

I go through my idea quickly, leaning toward my new accomplice and speaking as quickly as I can. The day is already half done and I want to have this finished by the time they close tonight.

Mars has been stressed about operations in the garage.

And if I can make his life a little bit easier, in exchange for him saving mine, it’s worth the risk of getting in trouble.

By the end of the day we’ve entirely reorganized the space. There’s no longer a wall full of specialty tools, another of standard hammers, and a third of everything else. Instead, there’s a setup for every many who comes into the garage to work. A tool belt, a handheld case full of tools, and an apron in case he needs to weld. The specialty tools are still housed in one location but they’re pinned to a board so a man can look through them more quickly, find what he needs, and get back to his project. Every man will have the same set of tools at his fingertips, and he’ll keep those tools with him all day. Right now every setup looks exactly the same, but in time I expect them to personalize them. Use the brands they like best. Include tools that I haven’t included but that they use often. Put individual designs on their tool belts.

The point stands: They’ll come in, grab their setup, and go about their lives, pausing only when they need something specialized.

And Mars is staring at me like I’ve just created fire.

“It’s just more efficient,” I tell him. “No mechanics getting in each other’s way. No one fighting over tools that they both need to use at the same time. And everyone will take ownership over their tools, which means they’ll take better care of them. Nothing is public property. Their stuff is their stuff.”

“You did all this in one day?”

I shrug. “Half a day, actually.”

He stares at me like he’s forgotten how to speak, so I say one more thing.

“You saved my life, Mars. I had to pay you back somehow.”

Then I turn and leave, ready for a shower, dinner, and maybe a book. Behind me, I hear Mars not following me, and wonder how long he’s going to stand there being amazed that I have a brain.

And that I know how to use it.

Arden

The garage is whirring with activity when I’m next in it, and I pause in the doorway to appreciate it. Men are moving around smoothly rather than running here and there like chickens with their heads cut off, and each project—each bike or truck or car—has one toolbox sitting in front of it with a few other tools surrounding it. I see Dutch speaking with Whiskey at the specialty tool counter, the two of them comparing two tools that do things I’ll probably never understand. On the other side of them Rookie is bent over the engine of the old red Chevy, his face creased in concern and his fingers tickling along the tools strapped to his belt.

But he’s not fighting for access to something he can’t have, which is where I would have found him two days ago.

And no men are bickering about some tool they can’t find, or the fact that someone just crashed into them in the middle of the floor, or that they don’t have enough time to finish a project.

Two days ago, these men were moving around each other like they’d never met in their lives and didn’t know how to work in the others’ space. Now it looks like a well-choreographed ballet.

Though I guess I won’t tell them that. They’d probably think I was insulting their manhood.

I grin at the thought and step down onto the black and white floor, looking for Mars. When I find him, he’s bent over a new Harley running his fingers along the handlebars and talking to it.

“You telling it all the beautiful new things you’re planning?” I joke.