It's a quiet June afternoon in Sabillasville, Maryland. The air's so laden with humidity you could swim it it, and the heat radiates in wavering lines off the asphalt. But it's quiet as they get, given the drone of cicadas! And the rattling whir of a shop fan. And the banging of someone pinning some kind of metal part down onto a workbench and having their way with it. And the sound of someone singing enthusiastically, if not very tunefully. And the sound of an engine revving, coughing, and dying. And a bit of swearing.
Perhaps not quite the quietest June afternoon.
A figure emerges from a tiny garage tucked up in one of the cheaper parts of town, grease-stained tank top and jeans and boots that were made for stomping, wiping their face with a rag that looks only clean enough to spread the grease around. They tuck their thumbs into their pockets and lean back against the framing of the garage door, catching their breath and taking a sip of a cold bottle of water. Business is slow today, but that's alright by them - plenty of time then to commune with the project cars.
They're about to step back inside for round 2 with those timing valves when there's the sound of an engine in obvious distress in the distance.
A smile breaks through the grease and ash. New friends for them today after all...