Page 3 of Retrofit Analysis

“Hmm,” I tell him. The last time Callum brought that rust bucket over, he left a spill that still hasn’t been mitigated. I try to remember what I’ve got in terms of drop cloth.

“Please? I’ll bring you a scone.”

They must be running in Frick Park, near my favorite bakery. “Only if they have the chocolate almond kind,” I tell him. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

I set about protecting the driveway and gathering the tools I think my nephew will need to keep his beloved Bronco running for another day. No one in the family can understand his attachment to the ancient SUV, especially now that he lives in a fancy condo where I’m sure the affluent residents don’t much like him dripping oil in the parking garage.

I see the teen boy across the street standing at the top of their driveway, squinting around the neighborhood. I give a wave, but he mustn’t see because he doesn’t return the gesture. Soon enough, Cal rumbles into view and hops out of his vehicle nearly as soon as it groans to a halt.

“Hell, Uncle Kellen, you already got the ramps set up and everything.” He grins and tosses me a white paper bag from the bakery. I lean against the garage, munching the treat while he slides underneath his car and sets to work. It occurs to me that the neighbors must think I’m running an underground garage, with all the Brady kid car repairs this week.

“You think after I’m done here, Ferrari will hire me for their pit crew?” He jokes as he works under the car. Callum is a mechanical engineer and has always had a particular love of automobile engines. He was the only Cub Scout in Pittsburgh to win the Pinewood Derby five years in a row. As the adult helping him build his cars, I’m proud to say I didn’t have much of a hand in his work.

The boy might be a mess, but he knows his moving parts.

I’m so wrapped up in admiring him, I almost don’t notice my new young neighbor stroll into my driveway until he speaks, not making eye contact. “Is that a fifth generation Ford Bronco?”

Cal wheels out from under the car. “Oh, hey, dude. You’re damn right it is. 1995.” He squints at the teen. “You like cars?”

The boy doesn’t answer, but frowns at Callum. “Are you a licensed mechanic?”

Cal laughs. “I’m a licensed mechanical engineer. Will that do?”

The teen’s face lights up. He sits on the driveway with his elbows on his knees as Cal slides back under the car. “This was the first Bronco to feature airbags,” he says.

I hear Cal groan and I laugh. The airbags are a family sticking point. When he found this car in the junk lot, that was the first thing his father made him replace. His mom still cringes when he drives it, despite my assurance that we found a suitable replacement. I finish my treat while the boy and Cal talk about the features of Rusty, Cal’s nickname for his red beast.

“Jake?” I hear a woman calling frantically and look up to see my neighbor dashing across the street. The boy stands up and she clutches at her chest.

“Shit, you scared the hell out of me.”

I could say the same thing. I feel like I’ve seen a ghost when the slim woman with short, graying hair steps closer.

“Is that a euphemism?” He frowns at his mother and I stare at her, not wanting to admit she is who I suspect. She drags him against her for a hug, muttering that he must always let her know where he’s going if he leaves the house. I try not to judge, because he certainly looks old enough to wander the neighborhood on his own.

But the woman. She conjures up memories of sunscreen and cotton candy. Of wild nights riding roller coasters, and steamy explorations in my parents’ borrowed car. Can it be her?

“Elizabeth?” My voice comes out in a croak as she turns and smiles. It is her, and I know in her eyes that she remembers me, too.

“Kellen Brady,” she says. “It’s been a long time.”

We stare at each other in silence for a long beat as Jake peels out of his mother’s embrace and sits back down on the driveway. “Ha!” Cal yells. “Found it. Need to reseal the crankshaft.” He rolls out from under the car and stands. “Well, hello there.”

Neither Elizabeth nor I moves and Cal looks back and forth between us. “That your mom?” He tilts his chin at Jake, who nods.

“Can I see the crankshaft?”

Elizabeth blinks and shakes her head quickly. “Jake, no. You mustn’t bother the Bradys.”

“Oh, it’s no bother,” I say, reaching for her arm to reassure her and freezing with my hand in the air. I can’t just casually touch Elizabeth Burns, like the past 30 years haven’t passed. Like she’s still mine to touch.

She swallows. “Machines, cars mostly, are a special interest of Jake’s,” she starts.

“Cool,” Cal says. “Me too. Obviously.” He gestures at the Bronco. Elizabeth grimaces.

“He tends to hyper focus. You really mustn’t feel like you need to let him⁠—“

“I have Aspergers,” Jake says in a monotone voice, not turning his head as he tries to crawl under the Bronco. “Technically that term does not exist anymore, but some members of the autistic community still claim it as an identity label.”