The woman returned, thumping a heavy, heavy cardboard box onto the counter. The brand-new aluminum casing of the alternator caught the shop's fluorescent light, looking like a silver crown in a room full of junk. "That'll be two hundred even," she said.

Lucas pushed open the heavy glass door, triggering a rusty chime. The smell of stale coffee, industrial degreaser, and old rubber filled his lungs. Behind the counter sat a woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun, her eyes magnified behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses. She didn't look up from her ledger.

Lucas slid his credit card across the counter. He held his breath as the ancient card reader dialed out, clicking and whirring. Approved.

"Heard you pull in," she said, her voice like sandpaper. "Sounded like a dying tractor. You’re lucky. I’ve got exactly one left on the shelf."

The neon sign for "Bud’s Auto" flickered against the heavy rain, dropping the 'B' into darkness so it just read "ud’s." Lucas pulled his steaming 2008 sedan into the gravel lot, the battery light on his dashboard glowing a furious, mocking red. He killed the engine, and the windshield wipers died halfway through a swipe.