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.

"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."

She disappeared into the back, the sounds of metal clanging against metal echoing through the dim warehouse. Lucas checked his phone again. 3% battery. If this part didn’t work, he was stranded in a town he didn't know, with no way to call for help.

He pulled out his phone, the screen cracked and dimming. He typed four desperate words into the search bar: .

The map dropped a pin exactly where he was standing. Bud’s was the only green dot for twenty miles.

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.

He grabbed the box, feeling its reassuring weight. He had no tools and only a dying flashlight, but as he looked out at the pouring rain, he knew he was going to make it home.

"I need an alternator," Lucas said, his voice shaking slightly from the cold. "2008 model. Four-cylinder."