It took me four minutes.

I cleaned the corrosion off with a wire brush. I tightened the terminal. I wiped my hands on a rag.

“Try it now.”

Chad turned the key. The engine roared into life.

Brooke put her hands over her face. I think she was crying. I don't know if it was relief or embarrassment.

Chad got out of the car and stood in front of me in the rain. He looked at my suit, which was soaked. At my hands, which were black again.

“How much do I owe you?” he said quietly.

“Nothing.”

“Nick. Come on. Let me pay you.”

I smiled.

“You offered me a tip earlier,” I said. “Here's a tip for you instead. Get your service department to tell people the truth. Show them the old parts. You'll be surprised how many come back.”

Chad looked at the ground for a long time.

“I poured oil in your locker,” he said. “In ninth grade.”

“I remember.”

“Brooke filmed it.”

“I remember that too.”

He finally looked up.

“I'm sorry, Nick,” he said. “I'm really, really sorry. For all of it.”

It was the first time in my life Chad Whitmore had ever called me by my name.