“Before we talk about the deal,” I said, “I'd like to see someone.”

“Of course,” said Phil. “Anyone.”

“Tyler. The young man who washes your cars.”

Phil looked confused. “Tyler? The lot attendant?”

“That's him.”

Somebody went to find him. A minute later, Tyler came in through the side door, in his wet blue overalls, holding a sponge. He looked terrified, like he thought he was in trouble.

Then he saw me.

“Oh,” he said. “Hi! You came back! Did you want another look at the van?”

Then he saw the banner. WELCOME, CALLAHAN FREIGHT. And the name on my shirt.

His mouth fell open.

“Tyler,” I said, “on Saturday, I walked in here sweaty and dirty in my work clothes. Your fleet sales manager told me to use the side door. Your sales team laughed at me. Your security guard was told to watch me in case I stole something.”

I put my hand on his wet shoulder.

“And you brought me a bottle of water. And showed me every inch of that van. And told me about your dad's back.”

The showroom was completely silent now. Other customers had stopped to watch. Mechanics were standing in the service doorway.

“You were the only person in this building,” I said, “who treated me like a customer.”