Back at the garage, Hank put the Ranger up on jack stands and handed Avery a flashlight.
"Come on," he said. "I want you to see it yourself."
She hesitated. She was in scrubs. Then she got down on the creeper, the rolling board mechanics lie on, and slid under the truck next to him.
"See that?" Hank pointed. "Where the driveshaft meets the rear end. That little cross-shaped joint. That's a U-joint. Universal joint. Lets the shaft bend while it turns."
He reached up and grabbed the driveshaft with both hands and twisted it. It moved. It clunked, metal on metal, loose as an old tooth.
"It's not supposed to do that," Avery said.
"Nope. There are little needle bearings inside those caps. They've run dry. Rusted out. Every time it goes around, it ticks. And every mile, it gets worse." He twisted it again. *Clunk.* "I'd say you had a few hundred miles left. Maybe less."
Avery lay there and looked at it for a long time.
"How much?"
"The part's about forty dollars."
She turned her head and stared at him.
"Forty?"
"Forty. And an hour of my time, which is free, because your grandpa bought me a steak dinner at a truck stop in Breezewood, Pennsylvania, in 1992 and I never paid him back."
Avery laughed. Then, without warning, she started to cry. Right there under the truck, with grease on her scrubs.
Hank didn't say anything. He just handed her a clean rag and waited. Lorraine had taught him that, after forty-four years.
The next afternoon, Hank drove to Athens with the old U-joint in a paper bag on the seat beside him.
The chain shop with the big yellow sign was busy. Hank waited his turn at the counter. When the manager came out, Hank set the paper bag on the counter and asked to speak to whoever had looked at a green Ford Ranger last week.
The manager got defensive. Hank had expected that.
Then a young tech came out from the back, wiping his hands. Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. His name tag said MARCO. He looked nervous.
"I looked at it," Marco said. "I put it up on the lift and checked everything on the list. I couldn't find anything."
Hank opened the bag and set the U-joint on the counter. He turned it with his fingers so Marco could hear the dry grinding.
"It doesn't show up on a lift," Hank said. "Not with the wheels hanging. You have to drive it. You have to listen with the clutch in. A noise that changes with the road and not with the engine, that's the driveline. Every time."
Marco picked up the U-joint and turned it slowly. His face went red.
"We told her it was safe to drive," he said quietly.
"You did."
"I'm sorry. I didn't..."
"I know you didn't." Hank's voice wasn't hard. "Nobody ever taught you. That's not all your fault." He looked at the manager. "But somebody here ought to teach him. And somebody ought to give that young lady her hundred and fifty dollars back."
The manager looked at the U-joint. Then at the line of customers watching from the waiting room.
He refunded it.
Before Hank left, Marco caught up to him in the parking lot.
"Mr. Doyle," he said. "Is there... could I come out sometime? On a Saturday? Just to learn some stuff?"
Hank looked at the kid for a while. He remembered being twenty-one, scared to death on a snowy interstate, and a voice on the radio who didn't have to help him.
"Bring coffee," Hank said. "I like it black."
Avery Collins didn't take the semester off.
She came out to Hank's garage every other Saturday that winter. Hank taught her to change her own oil, check her tire pressure, and listen. Mostly listen. Marco came too, with two black coffees, and stayed till dark.
Lorraine said the garage had never been so crowded. She said it like she didn't like it. She brought out cookies every time.
In February, Hank's phone rang on a Tuesday night.
"Hank? It's Avery. I'm on Route 33. The truck's making a new noise. Like a clicking, sort of fast. Should I pull over?"
Hank closed his eyes and listened through the phone.
*Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.*
"Avery," he said. "Are you about to turn left?"
A pause.
"...Yes?"
"That's your turn signal, kiddo."
She was still laughing when she hung up.
