The reunion ended at midnight.

It was pouring with rain. People ran across the parking lot holding jackets over their heads. I was walking to my old red pickup when I heard shouting.

Chad Whitmore was standing next to his big black Range Rover in the rain. The hood was up. Brooke was sitting inside with the door open, on the phone.

“It won't start!” Chad was shouting at the valet. “It's a ninety-thousand-dollar car and it won't start!”

“The tow truck says two hours, ma'am,” the valet told Brooke.

“Two hours? Our babysitter goes home at twelve-thirty!”

I stopped.

I could have kept walking. Part of me wanted to. I thought about the oil in my locker. Brooke filming it. Grease Monkey.

Then I thought about Uncle Ray.

The trick is not lying to the person who owns it.

I walked over.

“Chad,” I said. “Turn the key again. Let me listen.”

He stared at me, rain running down his face.

Then he turned the key.

Click. Click. Nothing.

“Battery terminal,” I said. “It's loose. And corroded. Your dealership should have caught that at your last service.”

I went to my truck and got my toolbox.

In the rain, in my navy suit, I leaned into Chad Whitmore's engine.